-NRLF 


B    3    3EM 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

MY  FATHER, 

WHOSE  WIDE  CULTURE  AND  SCHOLARLY  TASTES 

INTRODUCED  ME  TO  THESE, 

HIS  FRIENDS. 


M69J896 


PREFACE. 


IN  this  Historical  Romance,  built  upon  the  Lives  of 
Lamb  and  Coleridge  and  their  intimates,  I  am  indebted 
for  facts  to  careful  study  of  the  books  mentioned  below, 
and,  perhaps,  to  some  others  read  during  the  many 
years  of  preparation  given  to  the  subject. 

I  have  carefully  acknowledged  anything  taken  ver 
batim  from  another  writer ;  and  all  letters  of  my  char 
acters,  copied  from  their  "  Lives  "  or  "  Histories  "  are 
acknowledged  by  reference  to  my  authorities.  I  have 
used  such  letters  as  often  as  possible  to  complete  the 
mental  photographs  of  my  heroes.  But  all  conversa 
tions,  arguments,  and  table-talk  not  so  marked,  are,  of 
course,  my  own,  and  are  made  as  characteristic  of  the 
speakers  as  long  familiarity  with  their  writings  and  lives 
has  enabled  me  to  paint  them. 

If  in  collaborating  facts,  events,  and  history,  I  have 
erred,  or  have  been  misled,  as  is  very  possible  in  glean 
ing  history  from  so  many  sources,  I  trust  to  the  leniency 
of  a  Public  who  can  appreciate  the  difficulty  of  painting 
portraits  from  so  many  sketches — making,  as  it  were, 
composite  photographs  of  these  well-known  men. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


SOME  BOOKS  ABOUT  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE 
AND  THEIR  TIMES 


AINGER  (ALFRED)     Letters  of  Charles  Lamb. 
ASHTON  (JOHN)     Dawn  of  the  iQth  Century  in  England. 
BRANDL  (ALOIS)  and  EASTLAKE  (LADY)    Coleridge  and 

the  English  Romantic  School. 
CAINE  (HALL)     Life  of  Coleridge. 
COLERIDGE  (S.  T.)     Biographia  Literaria. 
COTTLE  (J.)     Coleridge  and  Southey. 
GILLMAN  (JAMES)     Life  of  Coleridge. 
HAZLITT  (WM.)     Spirit  of  the  Age. 
HAZLITT  (W.  CAREW)     Mary  and  Charles  Lamb. 
HOWITT   (WM.   and   MARY)     Homes    and    Haunts   of 

the  British  Poets. 

HUME  (DAVID)     History  of  England. 
KNIGHT  (WM.)     William  Wordsworth. 
LAMB  (C.)     Essays  of  Elia. 
LEE  (EDMUND)     Dorothy  Wordsworth. 
MARTIN  (B.  E.)     In  the  Footprints  of  Charles  Lamb.* 
MESEN  (R.  T.)     Personal  Traits  of  British  Authors. 
ROSSETTI  (L.  M.)     Mrs.  Shelley. 
RUSSELL  (LORD  JOHN)     Thomas  Moore's  Diary. 
SALA  (GEORGE  AUGUSTUS)     Living  London. 
SANDFORD  (MRS.  H.)     Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends. 
TALFOURD  (T.    N.)     Essays    and    Letters   of  Charles 

Lamb. 
TALFOURD  (T.  N.)     Memorials  of  Charles  Lamb. 

*  Appeared  after  the  present  volume  was  written,  but  before  it 
was  published. 

vi 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.  A  GRAY  DAWN 5 

II.  UPS  AND  DOWNS 15 

III.  NEW  FRIENDS  AND  ASPIRATIONS 24 

IV.  FIERCE  DOUBTS,  AND  A  VITAL  ANSWER 32 

V.  CONTRASTING  DESTINIES 43 

VI.  DE  SCYLLA  EN  CHARYBDIS 51 

VII.  THE  DREAMS  OF  YOUTH 59 

VIII.  A  SPRING  SONG 69 

IX.  DROPPED  STITCHES 74 

X.  LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE 78 

XI.  A  TRAGEDY 84 

XII.  NEW  SCENES  AND  FRIENDS 96 

XIII.  LONELY  DAYS  AND  FRIENDLY  LETTERS.  . . .   107 

XIV.  FRIENDS  IN  COUNCIL 114 

XV.  NEW  SCENES — LETTERS  FROM  THE  OLD  CON 
TINENT 125 

XVI.  ENGLISH  THESES  FOR  GERMAN  SOLUTION.  . . .  137 
XVII.  ESTRANGEMENT — LAMB'S  FAREWELL  TO  TO 
BACCO  141 

XVIII.  HEADS  OR  T.-  ILS  ? 147 

XIX.  ECCENTRICITIES,  SEEN  THROUGH  HUMOROUS 

EYES 157 

XX.  HE  WAS  A  MAN,  TAKE  HIM  FOR  ALL  IN  ALL,  I 

SHALL  NOT  LOOK  UPON  HIS   LIKE  AGAIN.  .  .     l68 

XXI.  LIFE'S  SHOALS  AND  QUICKSANDS 180 

XXII.  WEIGHED  IN  THE  BALANCE 184 

XXIII.  UPHILL  AND  DOWNHILL 190 

XXIV.  DRIFTING 198 

XXV.  THE  WHEEL  OF  FATE 206 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER.  PACK. 

XXVI.  THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN 215 

XXVII.  ANOTHER  CALAMITY 224 

XXVIII.  POETS  AND  THEIR  Music 229 

XXIX.  THE  HISSED  DHAMA — HOPES  AND  FEARS.  . .  236 

XXX.  AMID  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  SCENES 245 

XXXI.  THE  WARP  AND  WOOF  OF  SEVERAL  LIVES.  .  251 
XXXII.  WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  COUNTRY —  257 

XXXIII.  BROKEN  TIES. 266 

XXXIV.  RAVELED  STITCHES  AND  BROKEN  THREADS.  274 
XXXV.  THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE  NEVER  DID 

RUN  SMOOTH. 283 

XXXVI.  HONOR  TO  WHOM  HONOR  is  DUE 291 

XXXVII.  THE  WAGES  OF  SIN  is  DEATH 298 

XXXVIII.  CHANCE  AND  CHANGE 311 

XXXIX.  POSSIBILITIES  AND  IMPOSSIBILITIES... 323 

XL.  A  PROPHECY  FULFILLED 329 

XLI.  A  WELCOME  CHANGE 338 

XLII.  EVENING  SHADOWS 347 

XLIII.  FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM 353 

XLIV.  BLIND  MAN'S  HOLIDAY 357 

XLV.  DEATH  OF  COLERIDGE 367 

XL VI.  BREAKING  THE  KNOT 376 


THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

A   GRAY   DAWN. 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, — 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

WORDSWORTH. 

THE  London  of  1780  was  not  the  present  thronged, 
gigantic  city  whose  streets  seem  wellnigh  limitless,  and 
which  has  incorporated  all  the  suburban  towns  of  the 


6  THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

last  century.  It  was  not  blazing  with  gas  and  electric 
lights,  and  pulsating  with  the  tramways  connecting  the 
farthest  limit  with  the  throbbing  heart  of  the  great 
metropolis,  so  much  of  whose  busy  thought  and  life 
now  vibrate  through  its  telegraph  and  telephone  nerves. 
Still,  it  was  a  mighty  city  for  those  days.  Fashion 
thronged  through  Bloomsbury  and  Piccadilly;  and 
misery  abode  in  Whitechapel,  just  as  to-day.  Holborn 
and  the  Strand  teemed  with  people  hastening  to  the 
Exchange  and  the  Bank,  as  now.  The  stately  dome  of 
new  St.  Paul's  rose  majestically  above  the  surging 
streams  of  life  coursing  through  these  marts,  and  sent 
its  vibrant  tones  across  to  the  Mansion  House.  West 
minster  Abbey  looked  down  upon  St.  Margaret's  and 
St.  Martin's  in  the  Fields,  and  near  it  stood  the  old 
Parliament  buildings.  But  the  superb  gothic  West 
minster  Palace,  with  its  many  towers  and  myriad 
windows,  has  risen  since  those  days,  as  have  the 
National  Gallery,  the  Nelson  Monument,  and  the  lions 
of  Trafalgar  Square,  and  the  palatial  hotels  flanking 
the  square. 

Quaint  inns  like  the  old  "  Staple  Inn,"  and  the  "  White 
Horse  Cellar,"  and  the  "  Three  Feathers  "  were  the 
centers  of  life,  and,  during  the  day,  the  busy  coaches 
for  the  suburbs  and  provinces  in  the  North,  South, 
East,  and  West  of  England,  bustled  into  the  court 
yards  under  the  great  gateway  with  outriders  and 
merry  horns,  deposited  their  tired  occupants  and 
luggage,  changed  horses,  and  dashed  off  again  with 
a  fresh  supply  of  passengers  and  mail-bags. 

Beyond  the  old  Staple  Inn  of  Holborn  and  past 
Newgate  Prison  there  still  stands,  behind  an  iron 
paling,  a  quaint  gray-stone  building  with  gothic  win- 


A  GRA  Y  DA  WN.  7 

dows  and  a  great  doorway.  By  this  main  entrance 
one  passes  through  a  churchyard,  with  low  slabs  and  a 
few  box-  graves,  into  the  court.  Had  you — in  the  year 
mentioned  above — walked  under  the  arched  gateway, 
and  across  the  cloisters  into  the  quadrangle,  you  would 
have  seen  about  you  the  dingy  walls  of  the  Christ's 
Hospital,  or  "  Blue-coat  School."  Amid  the  furious 
din  of  * '  several  hundred  wrestling,  shrieking,  racing 
boys,  kicking  their  footballs  along  the  cloisters,  and 
playing  leap-frog  on  the  flags,"  far  off  in  a  sunny 
corner  crouched  a  couple  of  little  fellows  of  eight  and 
eleven  years.  The  poor  little  lads  are  young  enough 
to  need  home  shelter,  and  tender  enough  for  a  mother's 
watchful  care,  but  their  black  pates  are  pressed  to 
gether  over  a  book,  and  they  have  forgotten  home, 
mother,  and  the  uproar  around  them,  so  absorbed 
are  they  in  their  treasure. 

Suddenly  a  football  sends  their  book  sprawling 
upon  the  flags.  The  younger  boy  springs  like  a 
cat  upon  the  foremost  of  a  group,  who  are  jeering  at 
the  result  of  the  well-directed  aim. 

"  Go  it!  Cholley  !  "  "  Hit  'im  again  !  "  and  similar 
cries  greet  the  well-aimed  clawings  of  the  little  black- 
headed  imp,  who  has  landed  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
aggressor.  In  a  moment  the  two  are  rolling  over 
and  over,  entangled  in  the  long  skirts  of  their  blue 
coats.  Meanwhile,  the  older  of  the  two  friends  has 
collected  the  scattered  leaves  of  the  beloved  book, 
and  is  looking  with  sorrowful  gray  eyes  upon  the 
scuffle. 

"  Why  don't  you  pitch  in,  Esteecee  ?  you're  always 
afraid  of  your  skin  !  "  "  Mollycod !  "  called  out  several 
interested  by-standers. 


8  THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

But  a  great  bell  interrupts  further  demonstration,  and 
the  din  ends  in  a  mad  rush  for  the  entrance  to  the 
dining-hall.  The  old  pump  nearly  has  its  handle 
wrung  off,  as  dozens  of  boys  cluster  round  the  trough 
to  administer  hasty  dabs  at  grimy  faces.  The  long 
blue  skirts  are  hauled  out  of  belts,  where  they  were 
tucked  back  to  give  free  play  to  the  yellow-leather- 
covered  legs.  Confusion  and  bustle  subside  into  stately 
order,  as,  two  and  two,  the  boys  file  into  the  long  hall 
chanting  the  grace  to  the  rather  shaky  twang  and 
blare  of  violin  and  cornet.  The  young  voices  rise  in 
melodious  cadence  and  the  harmonies  fill  the  fine  old 
dining-hall  of  the  Blue-coat  School — one  of  the  hand 
somest  antiquities  of  London. 

Our  little  friends  linger  in  the  rear,  Cholley  mopping 
his  curly  poll  with  his  sleeve,  and  giggling. 

"  I  say  Es,  did'nt  I  1-1-lamb  Jem  like  a  h-h-hero  ?  I 
just  thought  I  was  one  of  those  fellows  at  Th-Th-Ther- 
mopylse." 

"  But  O,  Cholley,  what  will  Boyer  say  to  that  torn 
Plutarch?"  said  Esteecee,  trembling. 

"  N-never  mind,  I'll  say  I  did  it,  he's  always  so  hard 
on  you ;  and  he  don't  lick  fellows  that  o-o-own  up  half 
as  bad  as  when  he  d-discovers,"  said  the  philosophical 
little  Charley. 

The  twang  of  violin  and  pipe,  of  clarionet  and  flute, 
interrupting,  they  joined  in  the  decorous  grace,  chanted 
before  meat.  What  a  burst  of  harmony  rose  from  those 
hundreds  of  young  throats  and  echoed  along  the  oaken 
beams  of  the  roof,  and  vibrated  from  the  great  gothic 
windows  !  Truly,  so  rich  a  chant  might  have  served  for 
richer  fare  than  the  pease  soup,  brown  loaf,  and  bitter 
beer  in  the  homely  wooden  piggins  !  Perhaps  the  long 


A  GRA  Y  DA  WN.  9 

red  sunbeams  streaming  through  the  stained-glass  win 
dows  gave  a  couleur  de  rose  to  the  meager  dole  ;  but 
methinks  the  Monday's  tasteless  milk-porridge,  and  the 
Wednesday's  bowls  of  millet  and  treacle,  and  the  Thurs 
day's  boiled  beef  were  scarcely  flavored  and  seasoned 
by  golden  rays.  And  very,  very  often  there  were  not 
even  sunbeams  in  smoky,  drizzly  London.  But 
empty  stomachs,  after  hard  study  and  harder  play, 
found  even  these  "  unsavory  messes  "  acceptable  be 
cause  necessary,  and  few  were  the  crumbs  and  rem 
nants  for  those  on  table  duty  to  clear  away.  In  a 
twinkling  the  orderly  sets  of  boys  on  table  duty  had 
tucked  up  skirts,  whisked  leavings  into  baskets,  piled 
platters  and  "  piggins "  in,  polished  the  oaken  tables 
until  they  shone  like  mirrors,  and,  filing  into  the  scullery, 
had  deposited,  washed  up,  and  set  away  the  dishes. 

Lessons  again  after  dinner.  And  woe  to  him  who 
brought  imperfect  recitations  to  the  head-master,  Boyer  ! 
He  was  of  a  furious  temper,  and  used  his  cane  without 
stint  upon  the  idle  or  the  listless. 

"  What,  sirrah  !  are  ye  dreaming  again  ?  "  he  would 
shout  to  poor  little  Esteecee,  who  tremblingly  stumbled 
over  the  Latin  verbs  and  Greek  roots  he  knew  so  well 
an  hour  before. 

"  Stand  forward,  sirrah ! "  And  upon  the  cowering 
form  the  rod  or  strap  would  fall  with  whistling  thuds 
until  the  burly  Irishman  espied  some  fresh  victim 
tittering  over  a  book.  He  seemed  to  gloat  over  the  slips 
and  mistakes  of  the  nervous,  shambling  boy,  who 
shrank  from  his  terrible  eye.  And  after  each  thrash 
ing  the  poor,  discouraged  lad  would  fix  his  gaze  upon 
his  books,  and  try  to  gather  his  scattered  wits  for  a 
fresh  tussle  with  the  slippery  Latin  conjugations. 


10         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"Eh,  Cholley,"  Esteecee  said  to  his  sympathizing 
little  chum,  at  the  next  intermission,  "  if  he  would  but 
wait  until  I  can  get  it  out.  I  know  those  stanzas  as  I 
do  my  own  name :  listen."  And  he  repeated  page 
after  page  of  his  Horace  to  his  wondering  friend,  with 
out  a  pause,  save  for  the  sobs  that  shook  his  delicate 
frame. 

"  He  chases  it  out  of  me  with  his  wild  eyes,  glaring 
like  a  Satan's  demon." 

A  heavy  step,  not  heard  before  amid  the  babel  of 
the  boys'  voices  and  games,  caused  the  terrified  chil 
dren  to  turn,  just  in  time  to  catch  the  uplifted  strap 
right  upon  their  faces. 

"  And  ye  two  devils  criticise  the  master,  do  ye  ?  'A 
Satan's  demon,'  because  I  dare  chastize  the  idle  and 
laggard ! "  But  they  had  fled  ere  again  the  cruel 
thong  could  leave  its  marks  upon  the  blanched  faces. 

The  next  day  being  the  usual  weekly  holiday,  the 
Blue-coat  boys  were  turned  out  as  usual,  to  pass  the 
time  as  they  might,  through  the  long  hours  of  a  gray, 
drizzling,  winter's  day.  They  shivered  along  the 
streets,  drenched  and  miserable.  Some  were  fortunate 
enough  to  have  friends  or  relatives  in  London ;  and  let 
us  hope  the  poor  fellows  found  cordial  welcomes  on 
those  frequent  holidays  and  half-holidays,  after  the 
bare  halls  and  dreary  cloisters  of  the  Blue-coat  School. 

Blue-coat  boys  might  be  seen  all  over  London  and 
its  suburbs  on  these  half-holidays.  The  bare  heads 
(for  no  covering  is  worn  on  the  head)  and  the  blue 
gown  mark  the  Blue-coat  boys  to  this  day,  and  being 
set  apart  by  their  dress,  the  boys  have  a  pride  in  main 
taining  the  dignity  of  their  position.  They  are  not 
charity  boys,  but  "  protege's  of  the  nation,"  and  have 


A  GRAY  DAWN.  H 

always  held  aloof  in  pride  from  other  asylums  and 
hospitals,  considering  the  power  and  dignity  of  their 
establishment.  The  system  of  governing  by  "  sizars  " 
and  Grecians ;  the  promotion  for  merit,  and  the 
gradual  development  into  Grecians  with  full-fledged 
honors,  give  a  collegiate  air  to  the  institution,  and  'tis 
but  a  step  to  the  great  Universities  for  a  Grecian  of 
Christ's  Hospital. 

One  sees  them  strolling  along  the  Thames  and  loung 
ing  about  the  bridges,  or  sauntering  on  Cheapside  and 
Paternoster  Row  with  their  noses  pressed  against  the 
show-windows,  especially  those  of  book-stores.  They 
peer  into  the  pastry  shops,  and  after  a  careful  study  of 
the  riches  in  the  window,  the  more  fortunate  ones 
spend  a  penny  or  halfpenny  in  a  judicious  bun  or  a 
dyspeptic  muffin  for  dinner.  They  throng  the  Tower, 
passing  the  guards  fearlessly  on  their  oft-repeated 
visits  to  the  crown  jewels,  or  shuddering  over  the  fatal 
Traitor's  Gate,  or  the  stairway  where  the  young  Princes 
were  buried,  or  admiring  the  fine  old  armor  and  the 
splendid  arrangement  of  weapons  with  flower  and  vine 
designs.  Many  happy  days  are  passed  amid  these 
splendors.  One  often  wonders  what  those  homeless 
wanderers  would  do  on  the  many  rainy  half-holidays, 
without  the  Tower  or  the  British  Museum. 

On  this  rainy  Saturday,  "  Cholley  "  had  permission 
from  home  to  bring  his  home-sick  friend  to  the  pa 
ternal  roof.  How  briskly  they  trotted  through  Fetter 
Lane  to  the  Strand,  and  through  the  old  arch  into  the 
Inner  Temple  !  There,  at  the  end  of  the  long,  dingy 
brick  building,  with  its  rows  of  windows  staring  into 
the  Temple  Garden,  was  Crown  Office  Row,  and  there 
was  Sister  Mary  waiting  to  welcome  her  boy.  How 


12         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

warm  and  cosy  the  papered  walls,  the  high-backed 
chairs  and  great  cushioned  settle  looked  to  the  boys, 
after  the  bare  walls,  wooden  benches,  and  stone  floors, 
of  Christ's  Hospital !  What  a  world  of  comfort  and 
cheer  in  the  great  kitchen  fire,  throwing  its  glare  on 
chairs  and  table,  and  redolent  with  the  appetizing  fra 
grance  of  roast  beef,  suet  pudding,  or  hot  muffins  ! 

"  Eh,  Cholley,"  said  his  friend,  "  how  nice  to  have  a 
mother  and  sister  waiting  for  you  and  expecting  you  ! 
Your  sister  is  always  so  glad  to  see  you." 

"  So  would  yours  be  if  they  were  here,  in  London, 
Estee  ;  a  f-f -fellow's  mother  kind  of  b-belongs  to  him, 
you  know." 

"  No,  Cholley,  my  mother  had  too  many  to  look 
after  at  home  to  need  me.  I  was  one  too  many,  always  ; 
and  I  was  forever  being  sent  out  of  the  way,"  and  the 
large  gray  eyes  had  a  wistful  look  that  made  Charley's 
heart  ache,  young  as  he  was.  He  opened  the  great 
mahogany  book-case  and  found  their  favorite  "  Spec 
tator,"  and  the  two  were  soon  curled  up  in  a  corner  over 
its  pages.  After  a  while  they  got  out  the  volume  of 
Shakespeare,  of  which  they  never  tired. 

Esteecee's  cheeks  would  flush  as  he  read  "  Julius 
Caesar,"  and  Charley's  black  eyes  flashed  in  responsive 
enthusiasm. 

"  How  horrible  for  his  own  friend  to  have  stabbed 
him  !  To  die  with  his  friend's  treachery  before  him  was 
worse  than  the  pain  of  the  blow,"  exclaimed  Esteecee 
with  flashing  eyes. 

"  B-b-but  we  could  never  have  had  the  Oration  with 
out  that,"  said  Charley,  doubtfully. 

"  There  were  enough  to  kill  Caesar  without  Brutus's 
stab." 


A  GRA  Y  DA  WN.  13 

"Yes,  that  was  the  most  b-brutal  blow  of  all,"  said 
Charley. 

"  Oh,  you  midgets,  to  spend  your  holiday  curled  up 
over  books !  Don't  you  have  enough  of  them  at 
school  ?  "  asked  Sister  Mary,  patting  her  little  brother's 
curly  locks,  tenderly.  "  Such  learned  young  gentlemen 
as  these  Blue-coat  boys  with  their  Latin  and  mathe 
matics  !  Why,  Charley  is  growing  now  beyond  his 
sister's  reach." 

"  N-no  ;  only  trying  to  catch  up,  sister  ;  you  started 
on  f-f-f  ar  ahead  ;  I'll  have  to  climb  on  Latin  and  Greek 
to  get  even." 

"  And  the  poor  little  colts  have  been  urged  too  hard," 
said  Mary,  noticing  the  long  red  welts  across  the  boy's 
faces. 

"  We  were  talking  of  Boyer,  and  he  heard  me  call 
him,  *  devil ',"  said  Estee.  "  We  generally  know  in  the 
morning  what  sort  of  a  day  we'll  have  by  old  Boyer's 
wig.  When  he  comes  in  with  that  wig  cocked  over 
his  left  ear,  by  jingo  !  I  try  to  find  some  old  cloth  or 
newspapers  to  put  layers  in  my  breeches  and  shirt ;  he 
thrashes  the  very  Grecians  on  those  days." 

"  And  a  f-fellow  hit  back,  and  gave  him  an  awful 
black  eye,  last  Candlemas.  And  d-didn't  we  smile  !  " 
piped  in  Charley. 

"  Old  Boyer  couldn't  hit  straight  for  a  fortnight,  and 
the  boys  slipped  between  the  licks,"  said  Estee, 
laughing. 

Charley's  holidays  were  occasions  for  killing  the 
fatted  calf,  and  the  steaming  roast  mutton  and  suet 
pudding  received  full  justice  from  the  hungry  boys,  and 
seemed  a  sumptuous  repast  after  the  meager  dole  at 
Christ's  Hospital. 


14         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Charley's  big  brother,  John,  was  rather  a  quietus  to 
the  boys'  chatter  when  he  dined  at  home.  He  was  big, 
and  "such  a  swell,"  as  Charley  admiringly  termed  him. 
Somehow  the  room  always  seemed  smaller  and  more 
crowded  when  brother  John  came  in.  His  gorgeous 
waistcoats  and  neckcloths,  and  the  shining  brass 
buttons  on  his  coat  rather  overwhelmed  the  boys  and 
oppressed  them  with  a  sense  of  his  magnificence.  John 
represented  the  elegance  of  the  family. 

Mary  was  soft-eyed  and  very  sweet-looking,  but  the 
plain  mob-caps  and  folded  lawn  neckerchiefs  gave  her 
a  very  demure  air  for  a  young  woman  of  nineteen  years. 

She  was  very  silent,  save  when  she  and  Charley  were 
together,  when  she  was  gay  and  genial,  and  chatted 
as  fast  as  her  pet  brother. 

Esteecee  hovered  admiringly  around  her,  and  his 
tongue  became  eloquent  over  some  late  country  ramble 
or  a  new  book.  His  holidays  spent  with  his  friend  were 
the  happiest  days  of  his  boyhood. 


CHAPTER  II. 

UPS     AND     DOWNS. 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  Bee, 
Both  were  mine  !  Life  went  a  maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy 

When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young  ? — Ah,  woful  when  ! 
Ah  !  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands. 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

COLERIDGE. 

ONE  half-holiday,  some  weeks  later,  Estee  burst  into 
the  house  in  high  spirits.  He  hunted  up  his  friend, 
Miss  Mary,  exclaiming  breathlessly  :  "  Oh,  what  do 
you  think  has  happened  !  I  was  walking  along  the 
Strand  imagining  I  was  Leander  swimming  the  Helles 
pont.  I  had  my  eyes  shut  and  was  striking  out  with 
my  arms,  when  I  struck  an  old  gentleman's  back,  and 
got  my  arm  twisted  in  his  coat-tails.  He  grabbed  me, 
and  shook  me  while  I  was  trying  to  explain  to  him,  and 
he  wanted  to  call  a  watchman.  I  begged  him  to  listen, 


1 6         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

and  see  that  I  was  no  thief,  and  after  a  long  talk  he 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  my  swimming  on  a  London  street, 
and  asked  me  all  about  Hero  and  Leander,  and  ended 
by  taking  me  to  King's  Library,  on  Cheapside,  and 
buying  me  a  membership  ticket,  Oh,  think  of  it ! 
think  of  it !  I  can  always  have  some  place  to  go  on 
those  awful  holidays,  and  I  can  read  and  read  all  day 
long."  The  boy's  face  glowed  with  the  illumination  of 
happiness  until  he  seemed  another  being.  Mary  re 
joiced  in  the  child's  pleasure,  and  Charley  capered 
about  in  glee. 

"  I  sha'n't  mind  now  saving  half  my  breakfast  loaf 
for  dinner,  for  I  can  enjoy  it  over — oh,  everything,  in 
that  library.  Addison  and  Pope  and  Chaucer  and 
Spenser  and  Goldsmith  are  there.  And  you  can 
come  with  me,  Cholley,  and  I  can  lend  you  the  books, 
too." 

The  friends  went  to  their  dreary  dormitory  that  night, 
full  of  a  new  hope,  with  long  vistas  of  delight  stretch 
ing  out  before  them  ;  so  little  does  it  take  to  lift  a  child's 
heart  from  the  slough  of  despond  to  the  heavenly  hills 
of  enthusiasm  and  hope. 

Life's  burdens  are  heavy  enough  upon  old  shoulders ; 
'tis  pitiful  to  see  them  weighing  upon  the  young,  when  so 
little  can  scatter  them.  I  wonder  if  that  kind  old  man 
ever  remembered  afterwards,  or  knew,  the  stores  of  hap 
piness  he  had  provided  for  the  lonely  Blue-coat  boy, 
wandering  penniless  and  friendless  in  the  great,  busy 
London  ?  He  was  only  a  charity  boy,  a  Blue-coat  lad 
with  shambling  gait  and  blowsey  head  ;  but  that  fledg 
ling  grew  to  be  a  rara  avis  that  shall  sing  through  the 
centuries,  when  you  and  I  lie  forgotten. 

That  library  was  indeed  a  blessing  to  the  two  boys. 


UPS  AND  DOWNS.  17 

Estee  flew  from  Boyer's  blows  and  tyrannical  tasks  to 
hours  of  quiet  and  peace.  He  read  everything  with 
in  reach  ;  poetry,  history,  metaphysics,  classics,  all  were 
welcome  to  fill  the  void  of  loneliness  and  longing  in 
the  imaginative  youth's  heart.  The  works  of  Voltaire 
and  Hume  had  recently  been  added,  with  other  new 
writers,  and  our  greedy  Estee  devoured  everything, 
ignorant  of  any  danger.  His  mind  expanded  to  the 
new  theories,  and  he  felt  like  a  young  bird  trying  its 
own  pinions  for  the  first  time,  amid  the  wild  flights  of 
older  birds  who  had  flown  far  from  the  safe  home  nest 
of  orthodoxy.  Before  long  he  found  much  to  lure  him 
into  strange,  new  paths.  The  old  beliefs  and  faith  of 
his  father,  and  the  safe  dogmas  of  the  Church  as  incul 
cated  daily  in  the  school  routine,  grew  too  narrow  for 
the  tempted  fledgling.  So  months  and  years  went  by. 

Charley  was  less  tempted  by  these  dry  metaphysi 
cians.  He  was  too  young  to  venture  into  the  unknown 
regions.  Besides  his  beloved  Shakespeare,  he  read  dili 
gently  the  earlier  English  dramatists  and  the  minor 
Elizabethan  poets,  and  upon  such  models  his  taste  was 
formed.  They  were  the  dear  friends  of  his  boyhood 
in  these  King's  Library  days  ;  and  they  ever  remained 
the  richest  treasures  of  his  life. 

Charley  would  coax  Esteecee  into  the  Tower,  after 
they  had  been  reading  of  the  Lollards  or  of  Henry 
VIII.  and  his  wives  ;  of  the  sorrows  of  Anne  Boleyn, 
Lady  Jane  Grey,  or  of  Cromwell  and  his  times.  They 
would  hunt  up  the  historic  rooms,  and  picture  the 
celebrated  prisoners  who  had  chafed  and  pined  there, 
or  find  the  spot  where  they  had  forfeited  their  lives. 
They  would  imagine  themselves  confined  prisoners 
in  those  gloomy  cells,  and  follow  the  sufferings  of 


i8         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

the  heroes,  and  imagine  they,  too,  were  prisoners  of 
state,  until,  in  trembling  and  terror,  they  would  rush 
past  the  keepers  and  beyond  the  gates,  only  breathing 
freely  when,  safe  outside,  they  could  look  across  to  the 
walls  and  towers  from  the  opposite  hill. 

Upon  these  holidays  Charley  shared  with  Esteecee 
the  home  spoils  of  cold  mutton  or  veal-pie  which  old 
Aunt  Hetty  had  smuggled  into  the  school  for  her  boy. 

Poor  Aunt  Hetty  used  to  come  hobbling  into  the  play- 
yard  at  noon,  peering  amongst  the  noisy  horde  for  her 
little  curly-pate. 

"  Hello,  auntie  !  "  shouted  several  large  boys,  "  let's 
see  what's  in  that  basket,"  and  they  would  flock  around 
her,  and  lift  the  cover  of  the  bowl  containing  the 
coveted  morsels,  whilst  she  would  mumble  and  snarl 
and  strike  out  with  her  cane,  giving  many  a  sharp  rap 
upon  inquiring  knuckles. 

The  ungrateful  Charley  would  sneak  shamefacedly 
up,  and  hustling  the  old  dame  into  some  quiet  corner, 
hastily  gobble  all  he  could  cram  into  his  mouth,  stuff 
the  rest  into  his  coat-pocket,  or  tuck  it  under  his  gown 
for  future  use,  striking  out  at  inquisitive  groups  of  boys 
who  tried  to  follow  and  tease. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  just  before  recess,  auntie  ?  I 
would  meet  you  behind  that  gate  ;  the  boys  jeer  so  at 
thy  cane  and  call  me  *  mollycoddle.'  "  So  youth  criti 
cises  age  and  appropriates  kindness  as  its  just  due,  little 
thinking  how  empty  the  stomach  would  be,  after  por 
ridge  and  blue  skim-milk,  if  poor  old  auntie  did  not 
hobble  up  with  extras  from  the  home-table. 

Charley  was  fond  enough  of  the  edibles,  but  liked 
not  the  ridicule  and  importunities  of  his  comrades. 
The  broken  hot  loaf  and  bowl  of  pudding  would  be  but  a 


UPS  AND  DOWNS.  19 

crumb  if  shared  with  all  that  noisy  crowd.  They  often 
snatched  the  greater  portion  from  him ;  but  Charley 
was  as  wiry  as  he  was  diminutive,  and  could  defend 
his  rights  against  a  reasonable  number  of  assailants  by 
darting  between  their  legs,  or  twining  himself  around 
their  shoulders,  and  many  such  cat-like  maneuvers. 

Poor  fastidious  Esteecee  would  have  grown  even 
more  starved  and  lean  over  the  boiled  beef  and  bitter 
beer  and  millet,  if  Charley  had  not  always  shared  his 
home  spoils  with  his  friend.  Aunt  Hetty  came  almost 
daily,  and  the  boys  knew  where  and  when  to  watch  for 
the  little  hobbling  dame  with  her  basket.  They  often 
changed  the  rendezvous,  as  the  other  boys  discovered 
the  clandestine  meetings  and  demanded  their  share  of 
the  feast.  Many  bloody  noses  and  bruised  heads  were 
the  results  of  these  surreptitious  feasts,  while  Aunt 
Hetty  learned  to  snub  her  tormentors,  and  Charlie 
learned  to  improvise  corners  and  hiding-places  for  his 
goodies  as  a  dog  learns  to  hide  a  bone. 

"  Poor  Estee  was  always  building  imaginary  castles  of 
gingerbread  and  plum-cake,  and  eating  out  rooms  and 
corridors,  during  these  long,  hungry,  Christ's  Hospital 
days."  * 

The  long  holidays  came  year  after  year,  and  Esteecee 
went  home  to  Ottery  St.  Mary  to  visit  his  family.  But 
the  kind  father  was  dead,  and  the  elder  brother,  who 
had  the  living  and  the  little  parish  school,  had  a  family 
of  his  own,  and  dreaded  the  irregular  habits  and  inde 
pendent  ideas  of  the  London  school-boy.  Esteecee 
would  go  off  into  the  woods  and  forget  to  come  home 
at  meal-time,  or  would  return  dripping  from  a  swim- 

*  "  Life  of  Coleridge,"— HALL  CAINE, 


20         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMH  AXD  COLERIDGE. 

ming  expedition,  where  he  had  worn  his  clothes  into  the 
water,  from  very  indolence.  He  was  a  visionary  dreamer 
beyond  the  ordinary  rules  of  well-organized  families,  and 
his  relatives  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  him.  The 
tired  mother  had  nursed  and  reared  eleven  children ; 
and  the  queer  pranks  of  this  alien,  who  had  left  her  for 
the  city  school,  weaned  her.  He  compared  his  chilly 
welcome  with  the  love  and  tenderness  Charley  found 
in  his  home,  and  the  oppression  would  tighten  round 
the  young  heart,  and  the  yearning,  "  Why,  why  ? "  kept 
eating  into  his  very  soul. 

He  would  throw  himself  down  on  the  soft  grass  and 
watch  the  drifting  clouds  speed  over  the  blue  dome 
above  him ;  he  would  peer  into  the  mirror  of  the  quiet 
little  brook  that  meandered  through  the  meadows,  but 
nowhere  could  he  read  an  answer. 

"  Why  was  life  so  hard  for  him  ? " 

Other  boys  had  kind  fathers  and  loving  mothers  who 
lavished  tenderness  upon  them;  what  had  he  done 
to  miss  all  this  from  his  life  ?  He  saw  other  lads  driv 
ing  in  gay  coaches  with  happy  faces  and  fine  clothes ;  he 
had  no  coach;  no  fine  dinner  was  awaiting  him — only  a 
scolding  for  not  knowing  the  time,  and  this  would  re 
mind  him  that  he  was  late  again,  and  he  would  run  home 
breathlessly. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  rambling  through  these  pleas 
ant  fields,  he  must  go  back  to  those  stone  walls  and 
bare  floors,  and  mingle  again  with  that  wild  herd. 
Would  it  always  be  so  ?  What  could  come  next  ? 
Perhaps  he  might  win  further  honors — even  be  a  Gre 
cian  ;  perhaps  he  might  be  sent  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge, 
and  then  what  ? 

Well !  that  was  something  to  work  for,  something  to 


(/PS  AND  DOWNS.  21 

dream  over,  and  perhaps  comfort  and  home  and  happi 
ness  might  be  his  some  day.  As  he  cogitated  thus,  in 
his  rambles,  a  warm  ray  of  hope  would  come  back  to 
his  tired  young  heart.  And  Charley  would  be  glad 
to  see  him !  Charley  had  written  him  a  long  letter 
from  a  famous  old  mansion  in  Hertfordshire,  where 
he  and  Mary  were  staying  with  their  grandmother,  who 
was  housekeeper  in  this  stately  old  place.  What  a 
nice  way  Charley  had  of  describing  those  wide  halls, 
the  great  stairways,  and  the  fine  old  galleries  filled 
with  such  wonderful  paintings,  and  the  tapestried  walls, 
the  statuary  and  marble  balconies  !  Esteecee  had  seen 
something  like  this  at  Dudley  House,  and  at  Holland 
House,  when  he  peeped  through  the  gateway  with  the 
crowd,  watching  the  gayly-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen 
passing  from  their  carriages  and  sedan  chairs  into  the 
brilliantly-lighted  halls.  He  might  get  into  one  of 
these  splendid  homes  himself  some  day.  Was  not  Ad- 
dison,  like  himself,  the  son  of  a  poor  clergyman  in  a 
country  parish  ?  He  had  gone  to  the  Charterhouse,  no 
better  than  Christ's,  and  then  to  Oxford,  and  had 
worked  hard  and  studied  well,  and  had  written  poems 
and  essays  and  dramas,  which  had  opened  the  doors  of 
these  very  houses  to  him.  He  wrote  some  of  his  poems 
in  a  garret  in  the  Haymarket.  "  I  know  the  very 
house,"  said  Esteecee  to  himself,  "  and  he  afterwards 
lived  in  that  very  Holland  House  in  Kensington  that 
I  have  seen  blazing  with  light  and  flowers.  "  Shake 
speare,  himself,  was  but  a  poor  country  boy:  why  can 
not  I  rise  ?  Even  old  Boyer  grunts  a  compliment  over 
my  essays,  and  sometimes  says  my  Latin  verses  will 
pass.  If  work  can  raise  a  fellow  from  this  infernal 


22         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

poverty  and  dinginess,  why  need  I  question  fate  ?  I'll 
be  my  own  fate." 

So  reasoned  the  youth  of  fourteen  ;  he  felt  the  divine 
inspiration  within,  and  listening  to  the  call,  believed 
he  could  do  anything.  So,  often,  reasons  youth,  but 
genius  must  poise  the  wings  and  balance  the  body  for 
the  flight  to  fame  and  success.  Many  just  as  am 
bitious  as  Esteecee  have  fallen,  broken-winged,  by  the 
way. 

Esteecee  returned  more  hopefully  than  usual  to 
Christ's  Hospital,  and  Charley  rejoiced  at  the  change. 
The  boys  had  much  to  relate  of  their  holidays,  and 
Estee  was  full  of  his  new-born  hope.  Charley  listened 
with  great  admiration  to  his  voluble  friend's  plans  and 
hopes.  They  studied  hard,  and  for  a  time  Estee 
struggled  against  the  rheumatism  that  seemed  to  chain 
his  limbs  to  the  ground.  He  studied  well,  and  read 
everything  within  reach. 

Boyer  still  thrashed  him  whenever  he  found  an  op 
portunity.  He  often  said  he  gave  him  an  extra  blow 
"  because  he  was  such  an  ugly,  shambling  blockheaded 
fellow  " — a  fine  reason  for  a  master's  castigations  ! 

The  cold  rooms  gave  poor  Estee  rheumatics,  and  on 
the  half-holidays,  when  he  was  forced  to  roam  about, 
the  frosty  streets  gave  him  chilblains.  He  felt  less 
and  less  able  to  begin  the  literary  career  that  was  to 
open  the  doors  of  paradise  to  him.  He  was  much  in 
the  sick  ward,  and  was  put  on  nauseous  gruels,  and 
not  allowed  his  beloved  books,  because  hospital  nurses 
of  that  day,  certainly,  did  not  cure  patients  by  humor 
ing  their  idiosyncrasies.  A  special  liking  was  a  bad 
symptom,  and  must  be  suppressed.  So  the  days  went 
wearily  by. 


UPS  AND  DOWNS.  2.3 

Charley  was  moping  for  want  of  his  friend,  and  ever 
waiting  for  chances  to  share  his  best  morsel  with 
him.  As  often  as  possible  Estee  accompanied  Charley 
home  on  the  holidays,  and  there  found  rest  and 
comfort. 


CHAPTER  III. 

NEW    FRIENDS   AND    ASPIRATIONS. 

To  me  the  Eternal  Wisdom  hath  dispensed 
A  different  fortune  and  more  different  mind — 
Me  from  the  spot  where  first  I  sprang  to  light 
Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fixed 
Its  first  domestic  loves ;  and  hence  through  life 
Chasing  chance-started  friendships  a  brief  while. 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  Life's  pelting  ills  ; 
But,  like  a  tree  with  leaves  of  feeble  stem, 
If  the  clouds  lasted,  and  a  sudden  breeze 
Ruffled  the  boughs,  they  on  my  head  at  once 
Dropped  the  collected  shower. 

COLERIDGE. 

IN  Estee's  wanderings,  on  the  "halfs,"  he  had  found 
a  kind  cobbler  and  his  wife,  who  sheltered  him  at  their 
fire,  laughed  at  his  droll  stories,  and  looked  upon  him 
as  quite  a  philosopher.  The  warmth  and  cosy  comfort 
of  the  narrow  home  seemed  very  desirable,  after  the 
chill  atmosphere  of  Christ's  Hospital  and  the  drizzly 
streets,  and  he  was  so  hopeless  of  earning  fame  or  even 
a  pittance  by  the  uncertain  pathway  of  literature,  that 
he  decided  to  renounce  future  ambition  for  present 
comfort,  and  learn  cobbling.  There  seemed  even  a 
touch  of  elegance  in  the  warm  little  kitchen  behind  the 
shop,  where  the  good  wife  kept  the  bit  of  raisin-bread 
and  pot  of  soup  hot  for  the  lean  Blue-coat  boy  who 
honored  the  small  establishment  with  his  friendship. 


NEW  FRIENDS  AND  ASPIRATIONS.  25 

Estee  and  the  cobbler  had  long  talks  about  the 
possibilities  of  life,  and  the  probabilities  of  success. 

"  'Tis  feow  that  rise  into  affluence  and  fame,  me  lad ; 
the  rawd  is  sleow,  and  'tis  only  them  as  hes  genus  that 
hits  it,"  said  the  shoemaker.  "  Didn't  Holiver  Gold 
smith  live  in  this  very  street  right  'ere  in  Brick  Court  ? 
'Asn't  me  fayther  hoften  tawled  me  of  the  great 
scholard  that  writ  and  writ,  and  yet  ne'er  could  lay  by 
enough  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  dawer.  A  rael  gentle 
man  he  was,  sent  pomes  and  hessays  by  the  scores 
to  the  magazines,  an  writ  books  'nough  to  make  his 
fortune,  yet  pore  he  were  until  his  last  days.  My  fayther 
remembered  his  berryin'  like  it  was  yestere'en.  'E 
moved  haway  to  Hedgeware  Rawd ;  but  they  laid 
him  in  the  Temple  grounds  anigh  the  church,  with 
great  ceremoniousness.  And  I've  heard  that  the  chaps 
in  Parliment  hev  put  up  a  muniment  to  him  in  the 
Habbey,  like  he  were  a  great  person." 

"  Oh,"  said  Estee,  thoughtfully,  "  I've  seen  both  his 
grave  at  the  Temple,  and  the  slab  at  Westminster,  and 
I've  read  his  books  dozens  of  times  at  King's  Library. 
His  '  Animated  Nature '  is  delightful  ;  and  '  The 
Deserted  Village  '  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  poems 
in  the  English  language." 

"  Eh  !  well  ;  you  air  a  scholard  tew  ;  yet  'e  lived  and 
died  a  pore  man,  after  all  his  books  was  writ  and 
published.  I've  heerd  fayther  say  so,  yit  they  honored 
'is  name,  and  put  'im  in  the  Habbey  after  he  were 
dead." 

Estee  grew  very  sober  at  this  bit  of  history  with  its 
implied  pessimism.  It  was  another  fling  at  his  air- 
castles,  and  he  felt  his  hopes  sink  ;  for  work  as  he 
might,  he  could  never  excel  Goldsmith  or  even  Burns, 


26         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

and  their  lives  were  failures  if  their  works  were  not. 
He  sighed  a  deep,  heartfelt  sigh  which  was  almost  a 
sob,  and  after  a  long  silence  :  "  Sandy,"  said  he, 
"  would  you  take  me  as  an  apprentice  and  teach  me  to 
make  shoes  ?  I  must  earn  my  living ;  I  have  no  one  to 
help  me,  and  if  I  learn  a  trade,  I  can  help  myself ;  and 
the  sooner  I  begin,  the  better." 

"  I'll  tak  ye,  lad,  ye're  an  honest  chap,  and  not  above 
'umble  friends,  wi'  all  yer  larnin'.  I  could  teach  ye,"  he 
added,  doubtfully,  "  but  it  wad  tak  time." 

"  Would  you  see  old  Boyer,  the  master,  for  me  ;  he 
might  listen  to  you  better  than  to  me,"  said  Estee,  with 
a  formidable  vision  of  purple  wrath  and  torrents  of 
abuse,  rising  before  him. 

"  I  wull,  lad." 

"  He's  very  violent,  I've  told  you  about  him,  before," 
faltered  Estee. 

"  I  knows  it,  lad  ;  but  he  cawnt  do  more  nor  shake  'is 
stick  at  me ;  for  I've  a  pair  of  fists  of  me  owen." 

Estee  lay  back  and  laughed  and  shouted  over  a 
vision  of  the  bristling  Boyer  and  the  valiant  cobbler  in 
a  pitched  battle,  until  the  good  wife  came  into  the  shop 
to  hear  of  the  plan. 

She  shook  her  head  rather  ominously  at  the  prospect 
of  her  "  gude  mon"  coming  into  those  awful  clutches  ; 
but  her  affection  for  their  young1  protege  overcame  her 
wifely  fears,  and  she  concluded  :  "  Sandy  allus  could 
stand  up  pretty  well  to  a  tussle." 

Charley  was  distressed  at  the  result  of  his  friend's 
meditations  and  discouragements. 

"  Oh,  Estee !  if  you  give  up  all  your  plans  and  ambi 
tions  it  is  for  1-life.  You  are  throwing  away  all  ch-chances 
that  might  c-come,"  he  stammered.  "  You  are  1-1-losing 


NEW  FRIENDS  AND  ASPIRATIONS.  27 

the  honor  of  being  a  G-G-Grecian  and  g-g-going  to 
college,  and  being  among  your  b-betters.  I  b-b-believe 
you  only  want  to  be  a  sh-shoemaker  to  get  shoes  big 
enough  for  your  ch-chilblains.  It  is  g-g-going  to  the 
f-f-foot  of  everything,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 

But  Estee  held  to  his  purpose,  and  in  a  few  days  the 
two  conscious  boys  saw  a  stranger  enter  the  school-room 
and  ask  for  Boyer,  and  they  recognized  the  cobbler. 

Boyer  took  him  to  his  own  sanctum  and  soon  a  roar 
of  voices  was  heard.  The  schoolboys  were  all  agape 
with  excitement,  and  our  friends  trembled  guiltily  when 
the  cobbler  rushed  wildly  past  with  Boyer,  as  red  as  a 
hunter's  coat,  staggering  after  him.  The  violence  of  his 
kicks,  which  missed  the  fleeing  cobbler  each  time,  spun 
the  irate  teacher  nearly  off  his  balance. 

"  Come  forward,  sirrah,"  he  said,  glaring  at  poor 
Estee.  "You  want  to  be  a  shoemaker,  sirrah,  I 
hear." 

"  I  did,  sir,"  faltered  poor  Estee. 

"  A  noble  aim,  and  worthy  of  so  excellent  a  pupil ! 
And  why  do  you  aspire  to  such  a  height,  sirrah?" 
hissed  the  master. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  see  no  hope  of  ever  earning  a  home  by 
writing  or  literary  work  of  any  sort.  I  see  how  Burns 
and  Goldsmith " 

"  I'll  Burns  and  Goldsmith  ye,"  he  panted  as  he  laid 
on  the  strap  with  unmerciful  blows.  He  called  the 
sizars  and  ordered  the  trembling  lad  into  the  dungeon 
with  the  usual  bread  and  water  diet. 

For  any  lad  of  sixteen  to  be  shut  in  this  horrid  vault 
was  awful ;  but  for  a  lad  of  Estee's  nervous  tempera 
ment  it  was  brutal.  Charley  begged  his  own  preceptor, 
Field,  a  gentle,  lenient  man,  to  interfere,  but  to  no  pur- 


28         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

pose.  To  the  dungeon  Estee  went,  and  in  the  chill 
loneliness  and  darkness  of  the  stone  cell,  the  last  spark 
of  hope  died  out  of  that  young  heart.  He  doubted 
God's  care  ;  he  rebelled  against  Him  for  placing  his 
helplessness  in  such  straits. 

"  What  have  I  done  to  be  marked  out  for  naught  but 
sorrow  and  pain  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Had  I  wronged 
any  one,  or  murdered  a  fellow-creature,  or  stolen  food, 
some  days  when  I  was  hungry,  I  might  have  been  left 
to  such  a  fate.  But  I  have  studied  my  best ;  I  have 
harmed  no  one,  yet  here  I  lie,  in  a  dungeon,  crawled 
over  by  these  cursed  vermin  ;  and  gnawed  at  by  rats  if 
I  forget  myself  in  sleep.  Where  in  this  world  or  the 
next  is  an  atom  of  pity  or  help  ?  "  and  the  bare,  mouldy 
walls  echoed—"  Where  ? " 

There  was  great  pity  and  sympathy  in  one  heart, 
although  the  ability  to  help  scarcely  equaled  the 
will. 

Charley,  taking  a  hasty  flight  home  for  a  supply  of 
books  and  eatables,  on  the  first  half-holiday  after  Estee's 
imprisonment,  bribed  the  old  porter,  who  was  also  jailer, 
to  let  him  visit  his  friend. 

Estee's  heart  melted  when  he  saw  Charley's  faithful 
face,  and  warmly  welcomed  the  books.  His  mood 
softened.  "  Perhaps  God  did  not  forget  me,  since  he 
sent  you  to  me  in  this  gruesome  hole,"  he  said.  The 
very  act  of  yielding  his  rebellion  brought  new  peace, 
and  the  lads  wept  together  in  the  dismal  cell. 

"  Cholley,  dost  think  God  sent  thee  to  me,  lad  ?  He 
seems  to  have  forgotten  me  and  given  me  over  to  the 
Devil." 

"  Be  comforted,  Estee.  If  I  had  not  had  God's  help 
T  could  never  have  reached  you.  Think  of  all  the  rules 


NE  W  FRIENDS  AND  ASPIRA  TIONS.  29 

and  restrictions.  It  was  like  P-P-Peter  passing  the 
sleeping  guard  for  me  to  come  through  all  and  find 
you.  This  is  a  j-jolly  time  to  think  out  a  p-plan  of 
work  for  the  f-future,  you  know.  You  can  just  fill 
the  d-d-clark  old  room  with  plans  and  visions,  until  it 
sh-shines." 

After  the  episode  of  the  shoemaking  scheme,  culminat 
ing  in  the  dungeon,  the  lads  studied  harder  than  ever. 
Estee  became  a  fine  classical  scholar,  and  won  honors 
and  prizes,  and  finally  became  a  Grecian,  and  ranked 
high  among  that  envied  band  of  Blue-coat  magnates. 
His  universal  reading  had  made  him  famous,  and  his 
companions  were  proud  of  his  wonderful  eloquence. 
Gradually  he  gained  great  supremacy  amongst  them, 
and  became  their  oracle.  His  study  of  metaphysics 
and  philosophy  from  the  promiscuous  assortment  of 
literature  at  King's  Library  had  greatly  unsettled  his 
faith  in  the  simple  doctrines  of  the  English  Church, 
and  had  filled  his  mind  with  a  chaos  of  new  beliefs  and 
philosophies  that  rendered  him  a  most  interesting,  if 
not  dangerous,  companion. 

In  the  mean  time,  Charley  had  patiently  plodded  on 
under  Field,  a  more  lenient  master  than  Boyer,  and  was 
a  good  scholar,  though  not  so  brilliant  as  his  friend 
Estee.  He  was  satisfied  to  drift  along  in  the  old 
channels,  and  preferred  the  lighter  fields  of  literature  to 
his  friend's  restless  searchings  after  truth  and  groping 
into  mystery.  Charles  liked  to  dip  into  the  older 
English  dramatists  and  novelists,  such  as  Beaumont, 
Massinger  and  Richardson,  and  he  gleaned  all  the 
poetic  fields  within  reach.  He  was  a  good  scholar,  and 
when  promoted  to  Boyer's  charge,  that  choleric  in 
dividual  had  grown  too  rheumatic  to  wield  the  rod  with 


30      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AAfD  COLERIDGE. 

the  frequency  of  old.  Charles  being  a  winning  and 
apologetic  fellow  escaped  tolerably  well. 

Esteecee  or  Coleridge,  as  he  was  now  called  (the 
Esteecee  being  merely  a  nickname  from  his  initials, 
S.  T.  C.)  had  on  his  Saturdays  met  a  pleasant  family, 
the  friends  of  a  schoolmate.  The  Misses  Evans  were 
learning  millinery  with  a  milliner  on  Great  Russell 
Street,  and  whenever  Coleridge  could  escape  the  vigil 
ance  of  sizars,  and  upon  his  holidays,  the  big  Blue- 
coat  lad  with  the  waving  black  locks  would  escort  the 
girls  home.  Mrs.  Evans  found  the  young  scholar 
useful  and  agreeable,  and  often  invited  him  to  the 
friendly  tea-table ;  his  ceaseless  ripple  of  wit  and 
humor  being  a  most  pleasant  addition  to  their  quiet 
circle. 

Charles  and  Coleridge  would  scour  the  fields  and 
gardens  within  a  dozen  miles  of  Christ's  Hospital,  for 
the  violets  and  daisies  to  be  laid  at  Miss  Mary's 
feet. 

"  Ah,  Estee,  you  no  longer  c-c-care  to  browse  in  our 
poor  pasture,  since  Miss  Mary  has  filled  all  your 
d-d-dreams,"  sighed  Charles.  "  Pray  God  the  p-passion 
may  be  evan-nescent,"  he  said,  with  his  sunny  smile. 
"  You've  grown  so  masterful  since  you  have  become 
a  Grecian  and  a  1-1-lover,  that  your  poor  L-L-Lamb 
may  bleat  in  vain  for  his  old  chum." 

"  Nay,  Charley,  *  not  that  I  love  Caesar  less,  but 
Rome  more,'  you  surely  do  not  grudge  me  this  warm 
ingle-nook  after  these  long  years  of  cold  and  starva 
tion;  I  feel  that  the  sun  is  but  beginning  to  shine,  and 
I  am  basking  in  its  warmth  and  light ;  'tis  like  sparkling 
new  wine." 

"  Hello !  he  grows  poetic  !     Perchance  thou'lt  tipple 


NE  W  FRIENDS  AND  ASPIRA  TIONS.  3 1 

just  a  bit  too  long  and  find  thyself  in  the  *  slough  of 
despond  ' ;  the  lassie  may  bid  thee  get  along." 

"  No,  she  is  wondrous  kind,  and  my  soul  seems 
aflame  with  hope  and  love,"  said  Coleridge  with  a 
glorious  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  But,  Estee,  you  are  but  eighteen,  and  since  the 
shoemaker's  b-b-bench  has  been  denied  you,  and  college 
st-stretches  out  its  promises  to  you,  what  p-p-purpose 
can  you  have  in  this  love-making  ?  "  stammered  Charley. 

"  Purpose  !  "  echoed  Coleridge  ;  "  ah,  you  practical 
grandfather,  that  is  all  in  the  future.  It  is  enough  to 
love  and  be  beloved.  This  is  happiness  enough  for 
me.  And  after  ten  long  years  of  friendless  Blue-coat 
days,  you  need  not  fear  for  your  place,  old  fellow.  You 
will  always  have  your  corner  in  my  heart." 

And  so  the  dreamer  dreamed  on,  weaving  his  fancies 
into  poetic  work.  He  wrote  sonnets  to  his  beloved, 
and  sent  her  poems  upon  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of 
life,  with  the  flowers  filched  from  suburban  gardens. 

She  found  her  young  Adonis  very  amusing  ;  but  I 
fear  the  roses  and  pinks  were  sweeter  to  the  young 
milliner  than  the  rhythmic  flowers  ;  for  song  is  noth 
ing  to  deaf  ears,  and  to  the  unpoetic  heart  poetry  is 
often  nonsense,  though  love  sometimes  stirs  depths 
that  can  receive  the  pent-up  torrents  of  another's 
enthusiasm. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FIERCE  DOUBTS,  AND  A  VITAL  ANSWER. 

"  Sad  lot,  to  have  no  hope  !     Though  lowly  kneeling 

He  fain  would  frame  a  prayer  within  his  breast ; 
Would  fain  entreat  for  some  sweet  breath  of  healing, 

That  his  sick  body  might  have  ease  and  rest 

That  hope  which  was  his  inward  bliss  and  boast, 
Which  waned  and  died,  yet  ever  near  him  stood, 
Though  changed  in  nature,  wander  where  he  would — 
For  love's  despair  is  but  hope's  pining  ghost ! .  .  . 
.  .  .   .  Yet  this  one  hope  should  give 
Such  strength  that  he  would  bless  his  pains  and  live. 

COLERIDGE. 

ON  the  half-holidays,  Coleridge  had  a  new  enthu 
siasm  opening  to  him  ;  and  to  him,  as  to  all  dreamers,  a 
new  enthusiasm  was  a  source  of  rapture  and  energy. 
His  brother  Luke  had  come  to  London,  and  was  a 
practicing  physician  in  the  London  Hospital  and  al 
lowed  his  eager  young  brother  to  assist  him.  Cole 
ridge  could  hold  bandages  and  minister  in  many  ways 
to  the  sick,  and  a  desire  to  study  medicine  sprang  up 
in  his  heart.  He  devoured  the  books  upon  the  subject 
in  King's  Library,  and,  as  usual,  mastered  much  of  it 
in  an  incredibly  short  time. 

Luke's  tiny  home  and  his  young  wife  were  an  addi 
tional  factor  in  Coleridge's  life,  which  seemed  gradually 
broadening  in  interests  and  hopes.  And  with  the  re- 


FIERCE  DOUBTS,  AND  A    VITAL  ANSWER.      33 

lief  from  the  loneliness  and  bareness  of  Christ's  Hos 
pital  came  a  more  peaceful  spirit.  But  again  hope 
was  dashed  to  the  ground,  and  sorrow  fell  upon  his 
heart. 

Luke  became  ill,  and,  \\\  spite  of  the  faithful  nursing 
of  his  young  brother,  whenever  he  could  escape  from 
school  duties,  died,  leaving  his  young  wife  and  lovely 
boy  to  struggle  with  want  and  with  the  hard  world. 
Poor  Esteecee  !  the  blow  fell  hard  upon  him.  He  was 
becoming  hopeful  of  a  future  of  congenial  work,  and 
had  made  considerable  proficiency  in  his  medical 
studies;  but  Boyer  meant  him  for  a  different  career. 

He  was  expected  to  study  for  the  Church.  Blue-coat 
boys  are  provided  with  trades  or  professions  according 
to  merits,  and  Grecians  have  college  fellowships 
open  to  them.  Coleridge's  aptitude  for  study,  his 
classical  attainments,  and  exceeding  volubility  and 
fluency  in  argument,  decided  Boyer  and  the  directors 
on  sending  him  to  Cambridge  to  study  for  the  Church. 

"  But  I  have  no  taste  for  the  life,"  pleaded  Cole 
ridge. 

"No  taste!  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  Pray 
what  has  that  mule-pate  a  taste  for,  save  kicking  in  the 
harness?"  roared  Boyer. 

"  I  feel  entirely  unfit  for  the  life  and  its  duties,  sir," 
said  Coleridge. 

"  And  ye  would  rather  moon  and  dream  on  the 
housetop,  and  scribble  verses  to  the  stars  and  garters  !  " 
bellowed  Boyer ;  "  or  maybe  ye  are  still  longing  to  make 
shoes  ?  "  he  sneered. 

"  But  I  do  not  believe  the  doctrines  taught  by  the 
Church  of  England,"  stammered  Estee,  looking  the 
criminal  he  felt. 

3 


34         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  Hoots  !  thunder !  "  roared  the  irate  Boyer,  whose 
wig  fairly  rose  from  his  head.  "  What  do  you  know  of 
this  or  that  doctrine,  that  you  dare  deny  what  your 
betters  hold  sacred?"  he  hissed. 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  ten  years  of  omnivorous 
reading  that  Coleridge  had  lived  upon.  Voltaire,  Kant, 
Hume,  Gibbon,  Swedenborg,  were  unknown  at  Christ's 
Hospital,  and  the  master  little  dreamed  of  the  many 
hours  spent  at  King's  Library,  when  young  Coleridge 
had  been  endeavoring  to  assimilate  this  mental  pabu 
lum  until  his  digestion  was  upset. 

"I  am  an  Atheist,  sir,"  boldly  asserted  the  refractory 
youth,  "  and  I  will  meet  you  upon  any  point  you  name, 
and  give  you  my  reason." 

"  An  Atheist !  an  Infidel  !  "  shrieked  Boyer,  admin 
istering  such  a  thrashing  that  the  timid  fellow  turned, 
and  bit  and  fought,  until  the  panting  master,  now 
purple  with  rage,  called  the  sizars  and  again  condemned 
the  unlucky  youth  to  the  dungeon.  He  sent  also  a 
liberal  supply  of  theological  literature,  and  ordered  him 
to  prepare  for  an  examination  upon  the  "  Evidences  of 
Christianity "  and  other  standard  text-books  of  the 
Church. 

Coleridge  had  so  carefully  read  all  he  could  find  upon 
the  other  side,  and  had  so  long  been  weighing  the 
Socinian  beliefs,  and  Kant's  denials,  that  this  sudden 
and  severe  method  of  argument  was  not  likely  to  con 
vert  our  refractory  student.  He  had  imbibed  too  many 
Socratic  and  Idealist  theories  to  descend  at  bidding  to 
the  level  high-road  of  Evangelical  doctrines.  His  way 
ward  fancy  had  fed  upon  too  many  Atheistic  treatises, 
and  had  reveled  too  freely  in  Voltaire's  airy  flights, 
to  come  quietly  back  into  harness.  His  mind  was 


FIERCE  DOUBTS,  AND  A   VITAL  ANSWER.      35 

like  "  sweet  bells  jangled  and  out  of  tune,"  and  a 
flogging  and  cramming  of  cut-and-clried  theology  could 
not  bring  back  the  key-note  of  faith,  especially  while 
his  heart  was  lacerated  with  loss  and  disappointment. 

His  friend  Charles  Lamb  had  read  much  of  his 
metaphysics  with  him,  without,  however,  developing  the 
same  religious  skepticism,  for  sorrow  and  disappoint 
ment  had  not  embittered  his  nature.  Charles  warned 
Coleridge  again  and  again  that  there  was  nothing  com 
forting,  nothing  helpful,  in  these  wild  speculations  and 
denials. 

"  How  much  better,  Esteecee,  is  it  t-to  lift  the  heart, 
thankfully  and  p-prayerfully  to  the  one  only  God,  than 
t-to  lose  yourself  and  your  hold  on  faith  in  these  wild 
th-theories,"  he  would  stammer,  as  his  friend  argued 
for  this  or  that  atheistic  theory. 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you  whether  we  are 
but  i-ideas,  and  only  im-im-imagine  we  feel  and  suffer, 
or  whether  e-e-everything  is  real,  and  the  mind  but  a 
part  of  the  machinery.  Either  theory  of  the  Idealists, 
or  the  R-Realists,  is  but  empty  q-q-quibbling.  We  do 
feel  and  suffer  whether  in  real  materialism,  or  in  our 
minds  ;  a-a-and  what  we  want  is  the  c-cure. 

"  In  sickness  we  need  m-medicine  to  relieve  obstruc 
tions  and  help  nature,  and  in  mental  d-distress  we  need 
the  medicine  of  God's  help — our  only  h-h-healing. 
Whether  we  project  this  from  our  ideas  of  God,  or  accept 
it  from  his  S-Spirit,  the  healing  and  the  help  c-come,  if 
we  ask  it ;  and  we  are  c-comforted.  So  what  matters  it 
about  these  theories  ?  " 

"  But  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes,  Charley.  They  have 
been  opened  to  see  whole  worlds  of  reasoning  and  seem 
ing  truth  beyond  those  set  dogmas  prescribed  for  us  by 


36         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

men  who  believe  in  other  seeming  truth.  I  am  not  pre 
pared  to  affirm  or  deny  what  you  say  of  God's  help.  I 
have  tried  all  my  life  to  find  mercy  and  help  from 
God,  and  I  must  say  the  comfort  and  help,  if  any,  have 
been  infinitesimal,  while  the  staggering  blows  have  been 
only  too  visible  and  evident.  Nevertheless,  I  grant  a 
possible  purpose  in  trials,  and  a  possible  help  from  a 
Higher  Power ;  but  I  want  to  weigh  the  matter  and  sift 
the  evidences." 

"  And  who  are  y-you,  to  weigh  and  j -judge  ?  "  asked 
this  wise  young  philosopher,  made  wise  by  his  love  and 
fears  fpr  his  friend. 

"  The  ostrich  hides  its  head  and  feels  safe  because 
it  cannot  see  the  danger,"  said  Coleridge  ;  "but  I  am 
not  satisfied  to  swallow  theology  whole,  or  to  hide  my 
head  under  dogmatic  sand-piles ;  "  he  added,  smiling  at 
the  mixed  metaphor.  "  The  very  Fathers  differ  among 
themselves  and  quarrel  about  vital  points  ;  and  each 
denounces  the  other  as  worse  than  an  Atheist.  Look 
at  the  quarrels  between  Origen  and  the  Bishops  of  the 
early  Church,  between  Pelagius  and  St.  Augustine,  be 
tween  the  Protestant  and  the  Romish  churches,  between 
Calvinists  and  Churchmen,  and  then  say  that  they 
have  found  The  Truth.  Now,  what  is  Truth  ?  " 

"  Is  it  for  you,  a  y-youth  of  eighteen,  t-to  question  the 
convictions  of  the  learned  F-Fathers,  and  sift  the  t-truth 
between  them  and  the  railing  Atheists  ?  Will  you  in 
vent  s-s-something  to  suit  yourself,  the  *  Coleridgean 
doctrine,'  f-founded  upon  K-Kant's  Idealism,  and  gen 
eral  upsetting  of  all  the  other  philosophies,  on  Hume's 
Atheism,  which  cannot  p-prove  God  in  the  universe  or 
in  man  ;  on  Sp-Spinoza's  Pantheism,  or  God  in  every 
thing  ;  on  Voltaire's  mocking  Deism  ?  "  Charles  was 


FIERCE  DOUBTS,  AND  A    VITAL  ANSWER.      37 

so  utterly  in  earnest,  that  he  stuttered  out  these  ques 
tions  before  Coleridge  could  interrupt,  and  then  added, 
breathlessly  : 

"  Boil  'em  d-down,  simmer  them  well  over  the  f-fire  of 
vain-g-glory ;  sk-skim  them  with  the  1-ladle  of  opinion  ; 
d-d-dish  them  in  manly  independence  ;  and  you  have  the 
new  religion,  flavored  with  a  strong  essence  of  Q-Quaker- 
ism.  No,  no,  old  boy,  I  don't  p-pretend  to  share  your 
1-learning ;  but  I  don't  w-w-want  it.  I  have  a  s-simple 
old  b-book  that  has  served  Christians  for  living  and 
d-dying,  1700  years,  and  it  is  g-good  enough  for  me, 
without  cracking  my  skull  with  hair-splitting  '  isms  ' 
and  'ologies.' 

"That  is  just  where  all  start  from,  for  or  against; 
and  the  Bible  is  only  a  human  vessel  for — Divine  truth 
— if  you  will,"  said  Coleridge,  amazed  at  Charles's  vol 
ubility. 

"  As  far  as  I  can  see,  everything  must  have  a  human 
vehicle,  except,  perhaps,  light  and  air.  Thought  and 
ideas  must  be  put  into  words  for  expression,  and  hence 
the  theories  and  philosophies  you  would  exterminate. 
Why  should  they  not  have  the  same  chance  as  your 
Bible?" 

"  You  know  why,  Estee.  You  know  the  B-Bible  is 
inspired.  You  know  it  c-carries  a  power  and  c-comfort 
that  are  utterly  wanting  in  all  the  philosophies  of  the 
world.  It  is  the  s-simplest  religion  and  the  c-clearest 
because  it  is  Goifs  word" 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Charley,  and  I  will  not  swallow 
it  whole  until  I  find  that  out,  or  else  find  Truth  some 
where."  Coleridge  had  chafed  so  long  against  the 
trials  and  denials  of  his  life,  that  he  could  not  feel  the 
help  and  comfort  that  happier  people  find  in  relying 


3 8         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

upon  God's  care.  Yet  he  was  not  wholly  an  unbeliever, 
nor  was  he  at  all  a  willing  one. 

Charles's  reasoning  was  pretty  good  for  a  lad  of  six 
teen,  who  had  dipped  into  many  of  his  friend's  meta 
physical  researches  and  shared  his  difficulties.  Only 
a  spirit  of  faith  can  so  answer  the  world's  troublous 
questionings. 

All  this  conversation  between  Coleridge  and  Lamb 
had  occurred  months  before  the  scene  with  Boyer. 
Beyer's  attack  upon  his  infidelity  came  whilst  he  was 
still  wandering  and  groping  amid  these  mazes  ;  and 
the  wholesome  dose  of  doctrine  thrust  upon  him  whilst 
in  the  cell  helped  more  than  he  realized.  Later,  he 
could  thank  the  stern  mentor  for  his  summary  harshness. 
The  dear  old  father's  early  teaching  in  the  country 
parish  came  to  him  strong  and  clear  during  the  weary 
imprisonment,  and  with  the  remembrance  of  it  were 
mingled  longings  for  the  peaceful  charms  of  Nature. 

Coleridge  passed  the  test  examination  creditably, 
and  gave  such  clear  answers  and  objections  to  his  in 
quisitor's  questions,  that  they  thought  it  wiser  not  to 
push  the  matter  too  far.  It  is  probable  that  finding 
they  had  a  powerful  and  well  stored  mind  to  deal  with, 
they  wished  no  open  rupture  or  scandal,  for  example's 
sake. 

The  long  holidays  soon  came,  and  Coleridge  turned 
hungrily  to  his  old  home  with  its  peaceful  woods,  and 
the  smiling  Otter.  George  Coleridge,  who  occupied 
the  father's  parish  and  pulpit,  had  many  long  discus 
sions  with  the  obdurate  young  pedant,  to  the  sore  ruf 
fling  of  his  temper.  He  began  to  feel  that  the  younger 
brother  was  too  deep  for  him,  so  regarded  him  as  a 
willful  renegade. 


FIERCE  DOUBTS,  AND  A    VITAL  ANSWER.      39 

Poor  Estee  sighed  and  yearned  for  tenderness  and 
comprehension  from  his  mother.  But  her  interest  was 
in  the  fortunate  son  who  trod  in  his  father's  steps  ; 
and  her  sympathies  were  for  his  young  brood.  The 
weary,  heart-sore  wanderer  was  looked  upon  as  a  sort 
of  prodigal  who  carried  home  much  mud  and  filth  of 
the  struggling  world  ;  and  who  must  be  black  at  heart  to 
have  so  wandered. 

Esteecee  returned  to  Christ's  Hospital,  winning  for 
his  last  term  prizes  and  distinction  in  both  Greek  and 
Latin. 

As  a  Grecian,  his  stomach  was  somewhat  better 
rilled  than  in  the  early  days  of  blue  milk  and  millet ; 
the  small  stipend  attached  to  the  position  enabled  him 
to  add  sugar  and  coffee  and  potatoes  to  the  rigorous 
fare  of  those  days. 

His  friend  Charles  Lamb  at  the  close  of  the  term 
had  gained  the  position  of  deputy  Grecian,  and  some 
honors,  but  he  was  now  a  clerk  in  the  South  Sea  House, 
where  his  elder  brother  had  long  been  employed. 

Scarcely  had  Coleridge  returned  to  the  gloomy  clois 
ters  before  Charles  Lamb  appeared,  to  engage  his 
friend  to  dine  with  him  on  the  next  half-holiday. 

"  We  have  moved  from  the  Inner  Temple  to  more 
c-commodious  quarters  at  72  Queen  Street.  Come  and 
d-dedicate  our  household  gods ;  Mary  is  p-pining  to 
see  you,"  he  stammered,  with  the  same  old,  comical 
hitch  in  his  speaking. 

"  Odds  bobs  !  parson  Charley,  is  this  you  in  clerical 
black  and  a  hat,  with  no  more  coat-tails  fluttering  round 
your  attenuated  shanks  ?  "  laughed  Estee. 

"  Estee,  my  boy,  I  have  1-left  your  bookworms  behind, 
and  am  p-p-promoted  to  the  second  floor  of  yon  p-pil- 


40         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

lared  palace,  at  ,£50  per  annum.  I  s-slip  in  1-like  the 
noonday  shadow  of  the  venerable  John  and  reflect 
s-some  of  his  refulgent  glory,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
black  gaiters  buttoned  to  the  knees.  "  I  have  not  yet 
achieved  those  neck-ties,  Estee,  that  were  our  boyhood's 
envy." 

On  holidays,  when  Coleridge  was  not  carrying  bou 
quets  to  his  sweetheart,  he  would  walk  up  the  Strand 
to  Cheapside,  and  on  to  the  South  Sea  House  and 
wait  for  Charles,  and  the  two  would  stroll  back,  chat 
tering  like  magpies,  and  enjoying  the  bustle  of  the 
passing  vehicles.  My  Lady  Holland's  carriage  would 
dash  by,  spattering  mud  upon  the  young  cockneys ; 
and  they  would  have  glimpses  of  Edmund  Burke  on  his 
way  to  or  from  Parliament,  and  Pitt,  the  popular  pre 
mier,  whose  speeches  were  known  even  to  Blue-coat 
lads,  would  roll  by  in  his  coach.  But  they  strolled 
merrily  on,  caring  more  for  the  hot  dinner  awaiting 
them,  and  for  Mary's  joyful  greeting,  than  for  these 
statesmen  and  grandees.  Mary  was  thin  and  pale  in 
these  days,  sewing  day  and  night  to  increase  the  scanty 
income.  The  father  was  no  longer  clerk  with  a  snug 
little  salary  ;  but  was  tottering  to  feeble  old  age,  and 
Charles's  small  salary  and  Mary's  earnings  seemed 
scarcely  enough  for  the  family  needs.  Their  uncom 
plaining  adaptation  to  the  narrow  limits  of  their  poverty, 
and  the  exquisite  neatness  of  the  small  house  made  it 
very  cosy  and  homelike  to  the  homeless  stranger,  and 
he  greatly  prized  these  evenings  over  Shakespeare  or 
Massinger,  which  were  Charles's  delight.  Charles  had 
become  a  great  lover  of  the  drama,  and  often  spent 
his  evenings  at  Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden.  He 
was  so  captivated  with  Mrs.  Siddons'  acting,  that  he 


FIERCE  DOUBTS,  AND  A   VITAL  ANSWER,      41 

wrote  several  sonnets  to  her,  which  were  afterwards 
published. 

Coleridge  slipped  off  with  him  one  evening,  but  as 
theater-going  is  entirely  prohibited  at  Christ's  Hospital, 
he  was  obliged  to  lay  aside  the  marked  Blue-coat  dress, 
and  wear  coat  and  breeches  and  hat  belonging  to  the 
venerable  John,  unknown  to  that  worthy.  The  two 
youths  were  so  alarmed  at  their  temerity,  that  the  stolen 
pleasure  scarcely  compensated  for  the  awful  fears  of 
detection.  They  did  not  repeat  the  experiment,  so 
Coleridge  had  to  enjoy  the  theater  by  proxy. 

Mary  sometimes  accompanied  Charles,  and  enjoyed 
the  Kembles  and  Mrs.  Siddons  quite  as  intensely  as  did 
her  brother.  "  The  Rivals  "  and  "  School  for  Scandal," 
now  in  the  first  flush  of  their  fame,  were  heartily  en 
joyed  by  both. 

Another  great  pleasure  of  their  lives  was  the  Sunday 
walk  to  Hampstead  Heath,  or  through  the  green  lanes 
of  Islington,  then  a  village  several  miles  from  London. 

With  dinner-basket,  ale- bottles,  and  a  merry  flow  of 
wit  and  humor,  the  frolic  seemed  a  charming  treat, 
after  the  smoke  and  dullness  of  London.  Often  Cole 
ridge  and  his  sweetheart  would  join  them,  and  some 
times  Leigh  Hunt,  a  witty,  clever,  ease-loving  school 
fellow,  was  of  the  party,  and  then  the  fun  would  wax 
high.  Seated  in  some  shady  nook,  beside  a  babbling 
brook,  with  the  towers  and  spires  of  the  city  jeweling 
the  horizon,  they  would  discuss  poetry,  politics,  every 
thing,  in  fact,  over  the  sandwiches  and  cold  mutton, 
and  Coleridge's  eloquence  was  not  more  charming  than 
the  stammered  puns  and  witticisms  of  Charles,  and  the 
grave,  sweet,  interludes  of  Mary.  The  whispering  trees 
and  murmuring  stream,  and  the  distant  hum  of  the 


42         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

city  bells,  were  a  dreamy  and  lovely  accompaniment. 
In  the  spring,  the  friends  watched  the  trees  budding 
into  fairy  gauzes,  and  blossoming  into  pink  and  snowy 
bouquets  ;  in  summer  they  enjoyed  the  calm,  deep  skies, 
and  shady  denseness  of  the  oaks  and  plane-trees  ;  and 
in  autumn  the  golden  skies,  ripened  fields,  and  russet- 
trees,  with  the  occasional  crimson  vine.  Their  Sundays 
were  flower-crowned,  and  were  marked  days  in  their 
calendar. 

But  after  many  years  of  these  delightful  holiday 
rambles  and  sweet,  dreamy  confidences,  a  parting  came. 
Coleridge  was  sent  to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  and 
the  brother  and  sister  had  their  rambles  alone.  Their 
parents  needed  constant  care,  as  the  feeble  health  of 
each  slowly  failed,  and  the  poor  old  father  developed  a 
childish  petulance  and  helplessness ;  then  Charles's 
evenings  were  often  claimed  for  cribbage  by  the  quer 
ulous  old  man.  His  holidays  from  his  desk  were  less 
free  than  formerly.  Mary,  too,  was  daily  and  nightly 
in  attendance  upon  the  ailing  mother,  often  stitching 
wearily  during  the  intervals  of  nursing — not  the  sewing 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  with  the  fairy  machines  to 
rattle  off  long  seams  and  turn  work  into  play  ;  but 
slow,  tedious  work  in  the  lightest  corner  of  the  gloomy 
room,  or  often  by  sputtering,  flickering  candle-light. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CONTRASTING  DESTINIES. 

And  to  be  placed  as  they  with  gradual  fame, 
Among  the  archives  of  mankind,  thy  work 
Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  Truth — 
Of  Truth  profound,  a  sweet,  continuous  lay 
Not  learnt,  but  native — her  own  natural  notes  ! 
Ah  !  as  I  listened  with  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew, 
And  e'en  as  life  returns  upon  the  drowned, 
Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  pains. 

COLERIDGE. 

THUS  patiently  the  brother  and  sister  plodded  on, 
taking  life  as  it  came.  Life  to  them  meant  ceaseless 
toil  and  unchanging  drudgery  for  the  bare  necessities. 
A  few  books  in  the  great  mahogany  book-case  were 
the  only  luxury  ;  the  plain,  hair-cloth  sofa,  and  straight- 
back,  high,  old  mahogany  chairs,  and  center-table  were 
good  and  substantial,  but  suggested  no  thought  of 
beauty  or  even  comfort. 

But  the  Lambs  were  content ;  they  knew  little  else. 
Their  aspirations  were  simple,  and  had  not  been  poi 
soned  by  contact  with  the  great  world  of  fashion  around 
them.  What  cared  they  for  the  balls  and  routs  of 
nobility,  or  for  the  great  dinners  of  the  rich  !  Those 
jewels  and  flowers  and  courtesies  of  gay  beaux  and 
belles  belonged  to  another  world  than  theirs,  and  were 


44         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE, 

as  far  off  as  heaven.  They  had  glimpses  into  it  in  the 
passing  coaches  and  at  the  theater.  But  having  no 
contact  with  such  gayeties,  there  was  for  them  no 
temptation  to  envy  or  aspire.  The  simple  content  of 
those  whose  eyes  are  not  opened  to  the  gayeties  and 
pleasures  of  life,  with  all  their  attendant  struggles  and 
heart-aches,  is  happier  than  the  emulations  and  ambi 
tions  of  those  who  live  on  the  edge  of  the  world's 
favors. 

Even  to  those  who  reach  the  summit,  there  is  so 
much  of  care  and  toilsome  detail,  and  of  corroding 
anxiety,  that  their  hearts  are  strangers  to  the  content  of 
the  unstriving  poor.  As  we  rise  in  affluence  and  posi 
tion,  we  see  greater  heights  beyond  which  must  be 
reached.  Therefore,  said  Wolsey,  who  had  gained  the 
summit  :  "  Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambi 
tion  :  by  that  sin  fell  the  angels." 

How  fared  it  with  Coleridge  in  these  days  ?  He 
found  a  new  source  of  delight  in  the  long  shaded  ave 
nues  of  stately  elms  and  limes  of  Cambridge.  The 
winding  river,  reflecting  the  towers  and  spires,  gave 
fine  opportunities  for  bathing  and  boating  otthe  easier 
drifting.  The  beautiful,  historic  buildings,  with  their 
battlemented  tops  and  oriel  and  Tudor  windows ; 
with  their  spires  and  towers,  their  stately  archways, 
quadrangles,  and  smooth-shaven  lawns,  filled  his  poetic 
heart  with  rapture.  The  great  libraries,  with  more 
volumes  than  even  his  greedy  appetite  could  devour  in 
a  lifetime,  gave  him  a  happy  sense  of  repletion.  He 
donned  the  cap  and  gown  and  felt  at  home  within 
these  stately  halls  filled  with  scholars  like  himself. 
Groups  and  cliques  could  pass  from  college  to  college 
and  discuss  the  topics  dear  to  students'  hearts.  Polit- 


CONTRASTING  DESTINIES.  45 

ical  feeling  waxed  high.  France's  clays  of  riot  and 
shrieks  of  liberty  were  commencing,  and  the  ferment 
was  stirring  the  Whig  circles  of  England,  and  giving 
Toryism  anxious  occupation. 

Opinions  grew  hot  among  the  fiery  young  souls  gath 
ered  in  the  colleges,  and  the  ferment  of  liberty  was 
rising  in  the  form  of  independence,  in  the  scorn  of 
tyranny,  and  in  a  spirit  of  opposition  to  all  control. 

"  What  if  barbarities  do  result,  and  murders  stalk 
abroad  ;  was  ever  revolution  accomplished  without  ?  " 
asked  Coleridge,  now  a  rabid  revolutionist.  "  Of  course 
blood  flows  and  prisons  teem  ;  is  Liberty  not  worth  the 
cost?" 

The  staid  old  English  towers  frowned  down  upon 
such  heresy.  The  solemn  professors  frowned  even 
more  blackly  upon  the  suspicion  of  disloyalty  among 
college  men,  and  the  firebrand  was  quenched  by 
stricter  rules,  and  more  watchful  vigilance  over 
college  hours  and  work.  The  French  populace  had 
risen,  and  were  sweeping  down  king,  nobles,  and  laws 
in  a  wholesale  devastation.  Hideous  mobs  pillaged 
and  murdered  in  the  name  of  Liberty.  Blood  flowed 
like  water  down  the  streets  of  Paris,  and,  like  a  red  rag 
to  a  bull,  red  caps  and  rosettes  excited  fresh  horrors. 
Setting  up  their  goddess  of  Reason  in  the  Notre  Dame, 
they  massacred  bishops  and  priests,  for  Liberty. 

And  our  mad  young  Englishmen  felt  the  passion  for 
license  in  their  souls,  and  shouted  for  Liberty  too,  and 
wildest  of  them  was  our  dreamer  Coleridge,  who  ever 
welcomed  a  new  sensation  or  enthusiasm  as  the  voice 
of  God.  There  was  no  Boyer  now  to  hold  him  in  check ; 
the  revolutionary  yeast  must  rise  until  it  soured.  So  he 
worked  on  in  secret  meetings  and  debates,  a  recog- 


46         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

nized  leader,  with  his  golden  eloquence  and  his  boyish 
enthusiasm. 

Upon  his  arrival  at  Cambridge,  a  fine  gentleman  had 
called,  offering  to  furnish  his  room,  as  though  sent  by 
the  authorities,  and  telling  him  of  the  necessity  for 
establishing  himself  properly  among  his  associates. 

He  took  orders  for  refurnishing,  sending  a  couch  and 
table,  chairs,  an  escritoire  for  books  and  papers,  and 
dishes,  etc.,  to  entertain  a  few  friends  properly.  Cole 
ridge,  a  stranger  to  college  ways,  and  provided  with  the 
modest  stipend  belonging  to  a  Grecian  with  class  hon 
ors  coming  up  from  Christ's  Hospital,  gave  the  orders 
for  the  needed  articles.  Greatly  did  he  enjoy  his  cosy 
room  with  oriel  window  looking  upon  the  campus,  with 
roses  climbing  up  the  gray  walls  and  wreathing  about 
his  window,  shaking  their  rich  fragrance  into  his  room. 
Greatly  did  he  enjoy  the  soft  bed  and  luxurious  couch  ; 
and  his  table  was  often  graced  by  the  brighter  spirits 
of  the  college. 

His  old  friend,  Middleton,  of  Christ's  Hospital, 
had  preceded  him  to  Cambridge,  and  was  ready 
to,  welcome  him.  Many  happy  evenings  were  spent 
around  the  cosy  table  whose  simple  viands  testi 
fied  a  ready  welcome.  Coleridge  strove  for  honors 
during  this  first  year,  and  gained  the  gold  medal  for 
the  Greek  Ode.  His  room  became  the  favorite  meet 
ing  place  for  enthusiasts  like  himself.  Robespierre 
was  discussed  and  admired,  and  the  dreamers  were 
ready  to  emulate  the  struggle  for  liberty.  Religion  was 
freely  discussed,  and  Coleridge  again  had  wide  scope 
for  his  theories  and  wild  fancies.  From  Voltaire  to 
Priestley  ;  from  Berkeley  to  Hume  ;  from  Pitt  to  Robes 
pierre — all  the  questions  these  names  suggest  were 


CONTRASTING  DESTINIES.  47 

hotly  discussed  and  freely  handled  by  the  young  fools 
who  "  rushed  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread."  Coleridge 
drifted  past  the  shoals  of  infidelity,  that  had  threatened 
to  wreck  his  soul's  life,  to  Unitarianism.  But  within 
the  sacred  precincts  of  an  English  college,  founded 
upon  the  Church  of  England,  this  was  as  heretical  as 
dangerous,  and  the  brilliant  youth  was  in  greater  dan 
ger  of  expulsion  than  he  knew. 

Of  his  intimates,  one  friend  was  called  before  the 
college  authorities  to  answer  charges  of  schism  and 
Unitarianism.  The  questioning  was  very  close  and 
searching,  the  replies  were  bold  and  clear,  and  the 
argument  grew  hot  and  eager.  In  the  midst  of  a 
telling  reply  from  his  friend,  Coleridge  involuntarily 
clapped  his  hands.  A  proctor  immediately  charged 
the  man  next  to  Coleridge  with  the  breach  of  decorum, 
and  he  was  called  to  stand  before  that  august  assembly 
of  prelates  and  professors.  "  Would  that  I  could," 
he  replied,  holding  up  the  stump  of  a  right  arm ;  and 
thus  the  danger  drifted  by,  but  it  was  all  really  through 
the  proctor's  friendliness  to  the  real  offender.  When 
Coleridge  afterwards  confessed  to  the  proctor  that  he 
was  the  transgressor,  the  latter  replied,  "  I  knew  it,  and 
it  would  have  cost  you  your  place  in  college.  You  are 
on  dangerous  ground,  morally  and  politically,  and  you 
will  be  expelled  if  you  do  not  change  your  course." 

But  youth  is  fearless  of  results  and  courts  danger 
as  evidence  of  bravery,  and  the  warning  was  unheeded. 

Charles  Lamb  was  overjoyed  at  his  friend's  hopeful  and 
happy  letters,  and  he  and  Mary  pored  over  the  charming 
accounts  of  the  fine  old  buildings,  with  then  beautiful 
avenues  of  English  oaks  and  limes,  and  the  trim  col 
lege  bowling-greens.  If  Charles  sometimes  sighed 


48         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

over  the  stern  fate  that  kept  him  from  following  his 
friend  to  the  University,  and  enjoying  the  opportu 
nities  for  which  he  was  almost  as  well  fitted,  he  kept 
his  discontent  to  himself,  save  for  an  occasional  long 
ing  to  run  off  and  investigate  these  classic  scenes.  He 
was  needed  at  home  to  care  for  his  failing  father,  and 
to  throw  his  earnings  into  the  family  purse  to  keep 
starvation  from  the  door.  He  was  too  much  a  philoso 
pher  to  waste  time  in  complaints ;  but  in  the  silent 
nights  how  often  he  lay  and  thought  of  those  delight 
ful  possibilities  forever  closed  to  him  !  His  sweet  nature 
learned  patient  acquiescence  in  the  colorless  lot  laid 
out  for  him,  but  his  imagination  pictured  those  splendid 
halls  and  venerable  walls,  those  charming  groups  of 
congenial  souls,  the  teeming  life,  the  wholesome  fric 
tion  of  spirit  on  spirit  that  kindles  such  fires  of  enthu 
siasm. 

The  absence  of  this  opportunity  for  noble  thinking  and 
hopeful  doing  is  harder  to  bear  at  life's  threshold  than 
poverty  or  toil.  The  spirit  has  not  learned  the  hope 
lessness  of  mental  and  spiritual  struggle,  and  the  new 
soul-wings  feel  ready  to  soar,  if  space  and  chance  are 
given.  To  yield  all  that  ambition  and  hope  promise 
to  the  drudgery  for  daily  bread  is  a  bitter  blow. 
Charles  knew  but  one  path  lay  before  him,  and  so  he 
patiently  plodded  on  at  the  South  Sea  House  for  a 
year  or  so,  until  his  father's  old  patron,  Samuel  Salt, 
procured  a  better  position  for  him  in  the  India  House. 

"  I  have  changed  my  location,"  he  wrote  to  Cole 
ridge  ;  "  I,  also,  am  in  classic  halls  with  Doric  columns 
and  stately  facade.  I  take  my  daily  seat  at  my  ac 
countant's  desk  in  a  lofty  chamber,  with  statues  and 
pictures  of  moguls  and  begums  around  me,  almost 


CONTRASTING  DESTINIES.  49 

fancying  myself  Prime  Minister  to  India.  Around  me 
are  fine  specimens  of  Eastern  elegance,  carved  Bombay 
chairs  and  settees,  delicately  wrought  elephant  tusks 
and  ivory  idols,  quaint  Hindoo  gods,  etc.  I  have  but 
to  imagine  myself  the  happy  possessor,  as  I  gaze  upon 
them  from  my  daily  tasks,  and  what  could  be  better  ? 
You  know  the  sense  of  happiness  and  possession  lies 
in  the  idea,  according  to  your  German  theories  ;  and 
since  I  daily  have  these  treasures  about  me,  I  formu 
late  the  idea  that  they  are  tributes  to  my  greatness  ; 
ergo,  I  become  their  owner,  and  a  personage  of  conse 
quence  ;  ergo,  all  the  Indies  with  their  stores  of  wealth 
do  honor  me.  Below,  are  vast  museums  of  these  curi 
osities.  I  keep  them  under  lock  and  key,  lest  some  less 
fortunate  beings  should  be  tempted  to  dispute  my  pos 
session." 

So,  with  quaintest  vein  of  humor,  Charles  Lamb 
transformed  his  daily  routine  to  a  pretended  diversion, 
and,  year  by  year,  great  folios  of  figures  accumulated  to 
witness  the  patient  daily  drudgery. 

Coleridge,  at  the  University,  was  becoming  daily 
more  of  an  enthusiast  for  liberty.  Robespierre's  all- 
conquering  power  inspired  wonder  and  enthusiasm. 
Liberty,  as  shrieked  by  the  revolutionists ;  liberty,  as 
profaned  by  the  Jacobins  ;  liberty,  as  proclaimed  from 
the  council  halls  to  sanction  the  massacre  of  king  and 
conservative  Girondists;  liberty,  as  prostituted  by 
Robespierre  for  his  own  wild  ambitions,  seemed  a 
glorious  watchword  to  the  infatuated  young  fools  who 
wanted  vent  for  their  own  awakening  aspirations.  "  Here 
is  the  path  to  glory,  through  the  freeing  of  the  people 
from  kings  and  aristocrats  !  "  Such  were  the  senti 
ments  smouldering  throughout  the  colleges  and  among 

4  , 


50         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

the  young  madcaps  of  England,  and  causing  frequent 
riots  and  disturbances.  The  arrest  of  Home  Tooke 
and  Thelwall  and  other  revolutionary  enthusiasts  some 
what  quenched  the  rising  flames  ;  but  for  years  there 
was  an  occasional  flickering  of  liberty  fires. 

The  brand  left  a  mark  upon  that  college  set  and  their 
friends,  which  in  after  years  greatly  marred  their  fortunes 
and  destinies. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DE    SCYLLA    EN    CHARYBDIS. 

Repine  not,  O  my  son,  that  Heaven  hath  chastened  thee. 

Behold  this  vine, 
I  found  it  as  a  wild  tree,  whose  wanton  strength 

Hast  swoln  into  irregular  twigs, 

And  spent  itself  in  leaves  and  little  rings, 
So,  in  the  flourish  of  its  outwardness, 
Wasting  the  sap  and  strength 
That  should  have  given  forth  fruit. 
But  when  I  pruned  the  tree, 
Then  it  grew  temperate,  in  its  vain  expense 
Of  useless  leaves,  and  knotted,  as  thou  seest, 
Into  these  full,  clear  clusters,  to  repay 
The  hand  that  wisely  wounded  it. 

Repine  not,  O  my  son  ! 
In  wisdom  and  in  mercy  Heaven  inflicts, 
Like  a  wise  leech,  its  painful  remedies. 

SOUTHEY. 

MEANTIME,  less  heroic  matters  were  occupying 
Coleridge's  attention.  The  visitor  who  had  generously 
suggested  little  improvements  in  his  student's  quarters 
was  dunning  him  unmercifully.  Coleridge  found  to  his 
surprise  and  sorrow  that  those  same  chairs  and  tables 
were  not  part  of  the  college  outfit.  His  family  resented 
any  demands  for  "  extravagant  luxuries."  "  Have  I  not 
helped  send  you  to  the  University,  at  the  cost  of  con 
siderable  pinching,  and  must  I  be  rewarded  by  bills 
for  debaucheries  and  luxuries,  whilst  I  and.  my  family 


52         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

are  living  on  almost  nothing,  but  at  least  keeping  clear 
of  debt  ? "  wrote  his  brother. 

On  festive  occasions,  a  certain  grimy  money-lender 
would  walk  in  unannounced,  and  make  himself  appal 
lingly  at  home  upon  those  same  chairs.  If  Coleridge 
had  a  few  friends  to  dine  or  sup  with  him,  a  hook  nose 
and  piercing  eyes  were  sure  to  appear  at  the  door.  It 
was  Coleridge's  ever-present  skeleton  at  the  feast,  and 
he  would  hastily  call  his  tormentor  aside  to  beg  a  few 
more  days  of  grace.  Our  dreamer  had  willingly  given 
a  note  of  hand  to  free  himself  from  this  apparition ; 
but  when  the  day  of  settlement  came,  with  no  funds 
to  meet  the  note,  the  "  skeleton  "  seized  upon  the  fur 
niture,  and  confiscated  all  movables.  The  man's  dis 
appearance,  though  the  furniture  went  with  him,  was 
a  relief.  But  the  present  value  of  the  goods  was  far 
below  their  original  cost  six  months  ago  ;  and  again 
the  hook  nose  and  eagle  eyes  became  ubiquitous,  until 
the  disgust  and  shame  of  it,  and  the  hopelessness  of  ever 
getting  rid  of  him,  sent  Coleridge  a  fugitive  to  London. 
He  took  the  coach  to  town  one  black  night ;  and  when 
he  reached  the  city  with  no  money  and  few  friends,  he 
knew  not  where  to  go.  The  old  horror  was  slowly 
creeping  upon  him.  Whilst  sitting  disconsolately 
upon  the  door-step  of  a  deserted  house,  a  miserable 
beggar,  more  hungry  and  wretched  than  himself,  asked 
and  received  his  last  penny. 

"  He  is  more  hungry  and  helpless  than  I,"  Coleridge 
muttered  ;  but  when  he  sat  supperless  upon  the  lonely 
steps  all  night,  and  roamed  breakfastless  and  faint 
around  the  street  in  the  drizzling  dawn,  he  thought 
perhaps  he  was  the  more  miserable,  not  being  accus 
tomed  to  the  gnawings  of  hunger  in  these  days. 


DE  SCYLLA  EN  CHARYBDIS.  53 

"  Where  shall  I  go  ;  what  can  I  do  ?  "  kept  churning 
and  turning  over  in  his  mind.  All  the  philosophies  of 
all  the  sages  could  not  coin  him  a  penny  for  a  bun. 
His  friend  the  shoemaker  had  left  London,  and  he  was 
unwilling  to  apply  for  help  to  his  already  overburdened 
school-fellow,  Charles  Lamb.  He  felt  the  old  Blue- 
coat-days'  horror  fastening  tighter  around  his  heart  as 
he  wandered  aimlessly  on,  when  suddenly  he  espied 
the  sign  of  a  recruiting  officer  :  "  Men  wanted,  to  enlist 
on  the  1 5th,  in  Elliot's  Light  Dragoons."1" 

As  he  had  always  had  a  deep  antipathy  to  soldiers 
and  their  cut-throat  trade,  and  was  a  coward  about 
horses,  the  call  was  not  an  attractive  one.  He  read 
and  re-read  the  sign,  and  in  his  wretched  depression 
said :  "  Well,  if  there  is  a  devil,  he  is  holding  out  an 
enchanting  bait !  It  seems  a  call  to  the  most  distaste 
ful  life  that  my  unfortunate  feet  could  enter ;  so  it  must 
be  my  fate."  Doggedly  he  told  the  old  sergeant  he 
wished  to  enlist.  The  sergeant  looked,  first  carelessly, 
then  attentively,  at  the  hollow-eyed  young  man.  He  had 
seen  something  of  life,  and,  noting  the  weariness  and 
despair  in  the  young  fellow's  face,  suspected  he  wished 
only  to  escape  some  difficulty  or  hide  some  disgrace. 
The  sergeant  asked  him  where  he  had  slept,  and 
finding  his  fears  correct,  made  Coleridge  rest  on  his 
bed  and  share  his  breakfast.  He  tried  to  dissuade 
him  from  enlisting.  "  Take  this  crown,  young  man,  and 
go  to  the  theater,  and  come  back  to-morrow,  and  see 
if  you  are  not  in  a  different  way  of  thinking,"  he 
urged. 

Coleridge  gratefully  accepted  the  man's  sympathy 
and  much-needed  help,  spending  the  crown  for  food 
and  a  decent  lodging  for  the  next  night.  The  following 

*  "  Homes  and  Haunts  of  British  Poets." — Ho  WITT. 


54          THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

day  he  again  presented  himself  before  his  new-found 
friend,  and  insisted  upon  enlisting  under  the  name  of 
Silas  Cumberbatch,  or  "  Cumberback,"  as  he  was  soon 
called,  from  his  awkward  riding. 

"  I  could  not  disgrace  the  family  name  by  being 
a  common  working  private,"  he  murmured.  "  Poor 
brother  James  was  an  officer  when  he  died  last  winter, 
and  Frank  is  now  a  lieutenant  in  India.  It  would  not 
do  to  disgrace  him  by  giving  him  a  brother  who  may  be 
appointed  officer's  servant,"  he  said,  scornfully.  "  Not 
that  I  owe  the  captain,  the  clergyman,  or  the  lieu 
tenant  much  family  fealty,"  he  muttered,  bitterly,  "  but 
that  Cambridge  shark  will  better  lose  my  scent  under 
my  new  name." 

The  c(  mpany  marched  to  Reading,  and  poor  Cole 
ridge,  or  "  Cumberback,"  found  the  life  a  sorry  ex 
change  for  the  comforts  of  the  past  year  at  Cambridge. 

A  stumbling  horse,  which  delighted  in  tossing  up  its 
hind  legs  in  good,  rousing  kicks,  and  landing  the  awk 
ward  rider  in  the  mud,  was  not  calculated  to  improve 
his  taste  for  riding.  He  never  could  stick  on  that 
horse,  but  wobbled  around  in  most  disjointed  fashion, 
to  the  constant  amusement  of  his  companions.  He  was 
continually  under  punishment  for  rusty  accoutrements 
and  ungroomed  horse  ;  for  in  his  fits  of  abstraction 
he  would  forget  to  rub  the  animal  down.  His  rheu 
matic  pains  made  stooping  and  grooming  and  all  menial 
duties  most  painful,  and  the  exposed  life  added  to  his 
physical  miseries.  "  DC  Scylla  en  Charybdis"  he  often 
murmured  after  some  ignominious  tilt  into  mud  or  dust, 
or  after  a  reprimand  for  untidiness. 

But  in  camp  or  hospital,  the  clumsy  dragoon  was  a 
universal  favorite.  His  endless  stones  charmed  his 


DE  SCYLLA  EN  CHARYBDIS.  55 

companions.  His  reading  and  writing  were  marvels 
of  wisdom  to  them,  and  he  was  always  ready  to  write 
their  home  letters,  or  recite  poems  and  scenes  from 
his  old  favorites.  They  recognized  his  superiority,  and 
were  eager  to  serve  him  in  return.  In  this  way,  with 
ready  hands  to  groom  his  horse  and  clean  his  gun,  he 
slipped  along,  much  comforted  by  his  great  popularity. 

He  nursed  a  companion  through  small-pox,  when  no 
one  else  would  approach  the  shed  to  which  the  con 
tagion  was  banished.  His  life  was  novel  and  full  of 
hardships,  yet  the  affection  of  his  rough  associates 
made  it  bearable. 

He  was  appointed  orderly  to  Captain  Ogle,  where  the 
duties  were  less  irksome ;  for  his  Christ's  Hospital  days 
had  taught  him  lessons  in  setting  and  clearing  the  table 
which  were  useful  at  the  mess-room.  In  a  fit  of  de 
spondency  he  scribbled  upon  the  stable-door  the  words  : 
"  Eheu  quam  infortunii  miserrimum  est  fuisse  felicem  !  " 

Captain  Ogle  was  astonished  to  see  the  correct  Latin, 
and  suspected  the  author,  having  noticed  his  sham 
bling  orderly's  excellent  grammar  and  refined  speech,  so 
different  from  the  unlettered  ignorance  of  most  English 
privates.  Calling  him,  he  requested  him  in  Latin  to 
saddle  his  horse  and  attend  him  upon  some  mission, 
and  the  immediate  reply  proved  Coleridge  to  be  the 
writer  of  the  lines. 

"  How  came  you  in  such  a  position,  Cumberback  ? 
I  see  you  have  led  a  different  life.  Your  awkwardness 
in  your  duties,  and  your  education,  prove  you  belong  to 
a  different  sphere  ;  have  you  been  unfortunate  ? "  asked 
the  captain,  looking  keenly  at  the  abashed  Coleridge. 

"  Naw,  sur,"  he  stammered,  in  broad  north-country 
dialect ;  "  oive  picked  up  a  little  laming  at  me  fayther's 


56          THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

country-school ;  but  there  was  a  big  lot  of  us,  and  the 
eldest  was  sent  into  the  world." 

Captain  Ogle  looked  searchingly  at  him,  and  remem 
bered  to  have  heard,  heretofore,  a  speech  entirely  free 
from  dialect,  but  said  nothing  more. 

After  the  mention  of  the  fact  of  the  orderly's  Latin 
attainments,  and  his  endless  classic  and  historic  tales, 
which  were  widely  discussed  among  the  men,  Coleridge 
found  himself  uncomfortably  conspicuous  among  the 
officers.  The  fear  of  detection  was  realized  at  Hounslow, 
when  an  old  college  friend,  Allen  by  name,  recognized 
him  as  he  rode  behind  his  officer. 

"  Why,  Coleridge  !  where  have  you  been  hiding  these 
six  months  ?  Why  did  you  leave  Cambridge  so  sud 
denly  ?  Your  friends  and  family  have  been  searching 
everywhere  for  you,"  he  added,  running  breathlessly 
after  the  trotting  dragoon. 

"  You  are  meestaken,  sur,"  shouted  Coleridge,  "  I 
never  seen  your  loike  befar." 

"  No  !  you  need  not  pretend  I'm  mistaken  ;  I'd  know 
those  gray  eyes  in  Egypt,  and  that  black  poll,"  called 
his  friend. 

Captain  Ogle  turned  inquiringly,  and  Coleridge 
blushed  painfully,  looking  every  inch  a  detected  cul 
prit. 

"  He's  meestaken  the  pursun,  sur,"  said  Coleridge, 
digging  his  spurs  into  his  steed's  side  and  galloping 
away. 

Coleridge's  six  months  of  military  drill  and  repri 
mand  had  somewhat  straightened  the  stooping  shoulders 
and  bent  knees,  and  improved  his  awkward  gait,  and 
the  plain,  wholesome  fare  and  out-door  exercise  had 
strengthened  the  delicate  frame ;  but  the  poet,  meta- 


DE  SCYLLA  EN  CHARYBDIS.  57 

physician,  and  logician  of  the  University  was  not  yet 
transformed  into  the  typical  dragoon. 

His  friend  persisted  in  hunting  him  up  at  head 
quarters,  and  Coleridge's  persuasions  could  not  induce 
Allen  to  conceal  his  whereabouts. 

"  You  are  throwing  away  your  life,  with  your  talents 
and  attainments.  An  officer's  servant  ! — a  stable 
groom ! "  said  Allen,  indignantly,  whilst  Coleridge's 
astonished  companions  gaped  curiously. 

"Aw  said  ee  were  ascholard,"  said  one  ;  "  ee  telled 
us  aboot  Cromwell  and  Charles,  who  had  ees  'ed  cut 
off,  and  about  Robeyspear,  who  sarved  the  Frenchey 
Louis  a  loike  treek." 

"  Be  quiet,  will  you  !  "  thundered  Coleridge,  cursing 
the  foolish  tongue  that  had  led  to  this  scrape.  "  'Tis  an 
ill  turn  my  wits  have  done  me,"  sighed  the  discouraged 
dragoon.  "They  never  gave  me  a  pennyworth  of 
bread,  and  now  they  rise  like  Nemesis  to  force  me  out 
of  an  honest  living." 

"  Come  back  to  Cambridge,  Coleridge  ;  if  those  small 
debts  drove  you  away,  we  will  pay  them  and  set  you  up 
again.  It  is  wicked  to  waste  such  attainments  here," 
urged  Allen. 

Some  weeks  later  his  brother  appeared  and  angrily 
demanded  his  return. 

"  What,  sir  !  have  we  all  helped  you  enter  the 
University,  for  you  to  disgrace  the  family  thus — a 
dragoon  !  to  hide  the  results  of  your  debauches  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  not  been  leading  a  wild  life," 
angrily  answered  the  poor  fellow.  "  How  can  a  man 
live  anywhere  on  the  interest  of  nothing.  'Twould  take 
a  new  arithmetic  to  demonstrate  that ;  bread,  meat, 
clothing,  and  bed  on  £10  a  year!  Much  room  this 


58         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

leaves  for  debauchery  and  extravagance  !  I  tell  you 
I  could  not  squeeze  shillings  from  my  book  covers  or 
my  finger  ends,  and  your  liberality  of  ;£io  a  year  was 
simple  starvation  after  I  lost  my  tutorship.  Those 
debts  were  for  mere  furniture  and  necessaries.  Where 
did  you  suppose  those  would  spring  from,  I  not  having 
a  fairy  godmother  or  *  wonderful  lamp  '  ?  " 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  his  brother,  ';  comeback  to  Ottery 
and  help  me  with  the  school  until  the  next  term,  and 
then  go  back  to  Cambridge  and  fit  yourself  for  a  place 
in  the  world." 

Reluctantly  Coleridge  applied  for  and  gained  his 
discharge  from  service,  and  went  down  to  his  birthplace 
and  toiled  faithfully  among  the  boys.  But  his  dreami 
ness  gave  them  many  opportunities  for  shirking  lessons 
and  sliding  over  difficulties.  How  hard  boys  will  work 
to  shirk  an  appointed  lesson  or  duty  !  Why  does  the 
young  idea  always  aim  astray?  Coleridge,  being  young 
and  fresh  from  school  himself,  was  too  lenient  with 
their  slippery  ways,  and  George  Coleridge  saw  with 
indignation  that  their  progress  in  Latin  and  Greek  was 
but  slow  and  uncertain. 

This,  and  the  air  of  disapproval  hovering  round 
Coleridge  like  a  gloomy  cloud,  made  him  restless  to 
get  back  to  Cambridge. 

To  his  latest  days  he  never  forgave  his  mother  and 
brother  their  distrust  and  coldness.  It  rose  before 
him  like  a  wall  of  discouragement.  One  sometimes 
wonders  if  the  early  deaths  of  the  more  fortunate  sons, 
following  so  closely  one  after  another,  were  not  the 
Nemesis  avenging  his  unsheltered,  sordid  youth  on 
those  who  should  have  offered  helping  hands,  yet  left 
him  lonely  and  uncared  for. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  DREAMS    OF    YOUTH. 

Wisdom  doth  live,  with  children  round  her  knees ; 
Books,  leisure,  perfect  freedom,  and  the  talk 
Man  holds  with  week-day  man,  in  the  hourly  walk 

Of  the  mind's  business  ;  these  are  the  degrees 

By  which  true  sway  doth  mount  ;  this  is  the  stalk 

True  power  doth  grow  on  ;  and  her  rights  are  these. 

WORDSWORTH. 

COLERIDGE  took  up  his  broken  course  at  Cambridge, 
and  wrote  to  his  friend  Lamb,  whom  he  had  neglected 
during  his  days  of  masquerading  as  dragoon. 

"  Don't  mention  this  subject  to  me  again,  my  friend. 
I  never  want  you  to  imagine  I  enjoyed  the  delights 
of  being  groom  and  stable-boy  and  servant.  I  am  now 
again  among  my  friends  the  books,  free  from  settled 
debts,  and  shall  strive  to  gain  a  College  position.  To 
the  Church  I  cannot  turn ;  I  have  no  stomach  for  its 
bands  and  ligatures  of  doctrine,  and  cut-and-dried  and 
digested  pabulum  for  diseased  digestion.  Let  those 
whose  consciences  are  clear  of  doubt,  or  dried  to  pre 
scribed  form,  take  the  fat  livings  from  her  hands ;  I 
will  not  perjure  my  truth.  Moreover,  I  could  not  gain 
admittance  even  if  I  would." 

Later,  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  received  a  letter 
more  like  his  cheery  self : 

*  "  Life  of  Coleridge." — BLONDL. 


60         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  I've  just  come  across  a  volume  of  poems  by  a 
young  fellow  named  Wordsworth  ;  he  was  a  graduate  of 
Oxford  the  year  I  entered  Cambridge,  and  he  is  now 
in  London,  a  Westmoreland  fellow  with  the  sweetness 
of  the  hills  clinging  around  him.  Do  read  his  poems  ; 
they  breathe  true  heavenly  music.  Of  course,  the 
4  Monthly  Review  '  minced  it ;  all  modern  poetry  must 
pass  the  fires  of  criticism,  and  the  fiends  who  light 
these  fires  eternally  borrow  their  sulphur  from  a  hot 
place  that  never  is  suffered  to  cool.  These  poems 
are  exquisite  pictures  of  the  scenes  he  loves/  They  are 
mirrors  reflecting  Nature's  sweetest  smile  ;  the  fools  can 
not  see  it  through  their  own  smoked  glass.  Read  them, 
my  gentle  Lamb,  and  bleat  thy  opinion  to  me.  If  you 
could  find  this  bard  of  Nature  in  your  great  London, 
where  they  say  he  and  his  sister  are  living,  you  and 
your  dearest  Mary  might  find  most  congenial  spirits."  * 

But  Lamb  and  Mary  had  their  heads  too  full  of  work 
and  heavy  household  cares  to  take  Coleridge's  hint, 
and  Wordsworth  and  his  sister,  after  trying  to  stifle  their 
yearnings  for  the  hills  and  woods,  left  London  and 
settled  in  Somersetshire,  living  upon  a  small  legacy 
left  the  poet  by  an  admirer  named  Calvert. 

This  godsend  of  ^900  kept  the  wolf  from  the  door, 
and  enabled  the  poet  to  follow  his  bent  in  spite  of  lit 
erary  critics  and  want  of  success. 

Coleridge,  hearing  of  his  friend  Allan  Cunningham's 
success  at  Oxford,  determined  to  visit  him  and  compare 
Oxford  with  Cambridge.  He  set  out  on  a  pedestrian 
tour  along  the  beautiful,  shady,  English  roads,  and 
reached  Oxford  in  a  couple  of  days.  If  Cambridge 
was  picturesque,  what  raptures  did  the  glorious  towers 
*  "  Life  of  Coleridge." — BLONDL. 


THE  DREAMS  OF  YOUTH.  6\ 

and  spires  and  domes  of  Oxford  awake  in  him  !  He 
rambled  through  the  beautiful  stone  archways  to  the 
college  greens.  He  strolled  along  the  shaded  avenues 
of  Magdalen  College,  called  Addison's  Walk.  Through 
the  long  vistas  of  noble  limes,  interlaced  overhead,  he 
saw  the  turrets  and  spires  gleaming,  and  dreamed  of  the 
poet  Addison.  He  recalled  the  beautiful  rhapsodies 
and  elegant  metaphors  of  the  classic  "  Cato,"  and  found 
at  every  turn  inspiration  for  a  poet's  dreams.  On, 
through  the  "  Tom  quad  "  of  Christ's  College,  where 
the  gothic  windows  and  spires  of  the  beautiful  Cathe 
dral  charm  with  their  beauty  and  with  their  historic 
associations.  Visions  of  Wolsey's  magnificence  arose, 
as  he  contemplated  the  splendid  buildings  of  his 
munificent  gift. 

On  he  passed  through  the  Roman  arches  and  pillars 
of  Queen's  College,  in  severe  classic  contrast  with  the 
gothic  pinnacles  of  All  Souls'  and  the  oriel  windows 
of  St.  John's,  with  the  crimson  and  gold  roses  climbing 
to  its  battlement  roof,  and  enwreathing  the  rugged 
brown  walls.  He  walked  through  the  beautiful  gar 
dens  to  the  shaded  river-walk  back  of  the  colleges, 
where  spires  and  towers  peep  from  the  embowering 
green.  He  reached  Magdalen  with  its  ivy-crowned 
towers,  duplicated  in  the  river,  where  the  Isis  and 
Cherwell  are  spanned  by  the  bridges,  which  seem  war 
ders  of  the  ancient  moats  around  the  beautiful,  hoary, 
old  piles  that  have  outlived  so  many  generations  of 
men.  Truly  it  is  a  place  for  visions  and  dreams,  and 
our  dreamer  wandered  in  silent  uninterrupted  ecstasy 
through  the  shaded  avenues,  and  over  the  emerald 
lawns,  before  he  broke  the  spell,  and  hunted  up  his 
friend  Allan  Cunningham. 


62        THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Intimate  with  Cunningham  was  a  most  radical  fel 
low  who  had  been  expelled  from  Westminster  for  dar 
ing  to  write  an  article  against  school  tyranny.  He  had 
been  refused  admittance  to  Christ's  the  orthodox 
head  of  the  colleges,  for  his  radicalism  and  his  un 
settled  views  and  independence.  Baliol  had  ungra 
ciously  admitted  him.  It  only  tolerated  the  young 
scapegrace,  who  was  an  avowed  free-thinker  in  theology 
and  politics,  and  who  dared,  as  undergraduate,  to  throw 
off  the  conventional  college  wig.  Between  this  young 
man,  who  was  always  scribbling  poetry, — this  Robert 
Southey, — and  Coleridge,  a  warm  intimacy  sprang  up. 
There  was  a  great  congeniality  between  them.  They 
were  both  strong  advocates  of  the  French  Revolution, 
which  was  so  dearly  buying  "  liberty,  equality,  and 
fraternity."  They  inveighed  against  the  tyranny  of 
college  authority  in  requiring  such  deference  to  Church 
and  State.  They  rebelled  together  against  the  autoc 
racy  of  the  Church,  and  the  enforced  attendance  upon 
the  services,  which  they  called  but  remnants  of  Popery 
and  the  Scarlet  Woman. 

From  their  contagious  sympathy  in  moral,  mental, 
and  religious  liberty,  college  life  seemed  to  both  more 
and  more  distasteful ;  Coleridge  found  the  splendid 
old  palaces  of  Oxford  but  the  hoary  shells  of  most 
rotten  kernels. 

He  wrote  to  Southey,  after  departing  for  a  pedestrian 
tour  of  Wales  :  "  Verily,  Southey,  I  like  not  Oxford  nor 
the  inhabitants  of  it.  I  would  say  thou  art  a  night 
ingale  among  owls.  Thy  nest  is  in  the  blighted 
cornfields  where  the  poppy  nods  its  red-cowled 
head." 

They   had   rhapsodized   together  over   Coleridge's 


THE  DREAMS  OF  YOUTH.  63 

favorite,  Bowles,  and  his  later  admiration,  Wordsworth. 
Together,  they  read  their  poets,  strolling  along  the 
classic  avenues,  and  discussed  them  at  night,  some 
times  interpolating  with  their  own  fancies,  as  poets 
will.  Each  had  read  snatches  of  his  own  poems  and 
thoughts  to  the  appreciative  ear  of  the  other.  Both 
felt  the  upspringing  of  the  poet's  flame  within,  and 
each  required  a  kindred  spirit's  sympathy  and  encour 
agement.  Our  young  poets  had  feasted  upon  Shake 
speare,  Gray,  Addison,  Pope,  Thomson,  and  Bowles, 
and  were  eagerly  discussing  the  later  poets,  Cowper 
and  Goldsmith,  whose  works  were  slowly  creeping  into 
notice. 

What  sweet  depths  of  kinship  lie  in  this  meeting  of 
soul  with  soul  on  the  plane  above  the  every-day  world  ! 
They  felt  the  fire  kindling  in  their  own  souls,  and  each 
found  inspiration  in  the  other. 

Allan  Cunningham  and  Southey  had  been  studying 
Rousseau's  theories,  and  were  growing  enthusiastic  over 
a  plan  of  socialism  which  they  afterwards  called  Pan- 
tisocracy,  when  Coleridge  joined  them  in  the  scheme. 
The  dreamers  found  it  a  very  Utopia.  Pantisocracy 
was  to  be  a  government  of  entire  equality,  where  all 
the  members  of  the  community  should  divide  the 
manual  labor,  the  expenses,  and  the  results. 

These  dreamers  talked  about  the  scheme,  day  by  day 
and  into  the  night,  until  "  big  Tom's  "  curfew  drove  them 
reluctantly  apart.  The  friends  parted  at  the  expiration 
of  Coleridge's  visit  with  vows  of  eternal  friendship,  each 
feeling  stronger  for  the  other's  sympathy. 

Coleridge  had  heard  of  Wordsworth's  rambles  through 
the  North  of  Wales,  and  he,  too,  wished  to  drink  from 
the  fountain-head  of  beauty.  He  and  some  friends 


64         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

started  for  a  pedestrian  tour  amid  the  picturesque  glens 
and  brawling  ghylls  of  Wales. 

Southey  lingered  on  until  the  close  of  the  term  ;  but 
his  growing  impatience  of  church  and  college  restraints 
drove  him  at  last  to  forego  his  examination. 

He  determined  to  leave  Oxford  and  go  to  his  aunt's, 
in  Bath.  After  his  father's  failure  in  business  she  had 
taken  him  to  raise  and  educate,  and  had  great  aspira 
tions  for  the  brilliant  youth.  She  was  bitterly  disap 
pointed  at  his  refractory  spirit,  which  was  cutting  him 
off  from  the  career  she  had  planned  for  him. 

The  Pantisocratic  scheme  seemed  to  others  too 
absurd  for  more  than  'a  passing  sneer.  But  it  was  a 
growing  plan  among  the  young  men  with  whom  it  orig 
inated.  They  commenced  to  give  their  socialistic  theo 
ries  a  practical  turn,  agreeing  to  collect  funds,  charter 
a  sailing  vessel  for  America,  and  procure  a  small  tract 
of  arable  land,  lying  along  the  Susquehanna  River, 
where  they  might  become  farmers.  They  were  to  marry, 
and  their  wives  would  attend  to  the  dairy  and  the 
domestic  economy  of  the  new  settlement.  This  plan 
of  carrying  practical  wives  with  them  was  well  arranged, 
and  seemed  available.  Southey  was  already  madly 
in  love  with  a  Miss  Fricker,  a  sister  of  the  wife  of 
Lovell,  a  young  Quaker  poet  living  at  Bristol,  who  for 
many  years  had  been  a  friend  and  admirer  of  Southey, 
and  was  as  eager  as  he  for  the  new  scheme.  The  young 
women  were  as  enthusiastic  as  the  men. 

Lovell's  father  was  a  wealthy  Quaker  who  would  not 
listen  to  the  plan,  but  Lovell  was  about  the  only  mem 
ber  of  the  Brotherhood  with  the  shadow  of  money,  and 
even  his  was  mainly  shadow.  But  the  young  dreamers 
were  hopeful  and  trusted  that  fortune  might  at  last 


THE  DREAMS  OF  YOUTH.  65 

smile  upon  so  rational  and  modest  a  scheme.  George 
Burnet,  another  of  Southey's  Oxford  friends,  joined 
them  at  Bristol,  and  Charles  Lloyd,  a  Christ's  Hospital 
graduate  and  friend  of  Lamb  and  Coleridge,  was  also 
of  the  party.  Their  numbers  were  rapidly  increasing, 
and  upon  Coleridge's  return  from  Wales,  he  hastened 
to  Bristol,  to  join  his  friends. 

Cambridge  had  become  too  distasteful  with  its  strictly 
marked  theological  lines.  He  was  in  constant  danger 
of  incurring  reprimand  and  expulsion  for  his  "  obstinate, 
heterodox  views." 

"  I  never  could  control  my  erring  member  !  "  he  wrote 
to  Charles  Lamb.  "  I  like  not  the  pompous  masters 
and  the  begowned  and  bewigged  dons,  who  always  look 
askance  at  me.  I  feel  a  continual  desire  to  quiz  them 
upon  their  own  tenets,  and  in  fact  I  believe  the  '  Logos  ' 
would  stir  up  more  mud  than  their  waters  of  rhetoric 
and  reason  could  clear.  During  the  examination, 
when  Dr.  Camedon  was  holding  forth  upon  the  Trinity 
and  denouncing  the  Arians,  I  asked  what  authority 
they  found  for  believing  the  early  Fathers  taught  the 
Divinity  of  Christ." 

"  '  What !  '  thundered  the  Doctor,  '  you  presume  to 
introduce  heresies  here  ! ' 

"  '  Nay,  sir,  but  Tertullian  and  Origen  seemed  but  the 
originators  of  the  belief  in  the  economy ;  and  Chrysos- 
tom  apologizes  for  the  apostles  not  teaching  it,  because 
of  the  early  Christians  being  unprepared.' 

" '  Do  you  dare,  sir,  quote  the  Fathers  for  your 
heresies  ? '  he  asked. 

"  I  trembled  lest  I  should  be  called  before  that  august 
body  of  college  magnates  to  answer  for  the  awful  crime 
of  Socinianism,  and  yet  I  should  have  liked  to  hear 

5 


66         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

their  answer.  The  miracles,  the  resurrection  even, 
could  they  not  be  simple  manifestations  of  God's 
power,  like  the  plagues  of  Egypt,  and  the  raising  of 
the  widow's  son  ?  I  should  V^.  a  clear,  unbiassed  opin 
ion  and  fair  argument,  Charles  Lamb ;  but  in  this 
Churchly  establishment,  at  the  first  question,  they  cry, 
Infidel,  meddler  with  sacred  things  !  and  'tis  just  so  at 
Oxford  ;  yes,  'tis  worse  there,  for  a  set  of  high  Anglicans 
are  carrying  forms  and  ceremonies  and  externals  to 
the  verge  of  Papacy. 

"  If  they  are  so  sure  of  their  ground,  why  not  answer 
fair  questions  ? 

"  I  shall  not  return  from  these  free  fells  and  glades 
to  Cambridge.  I  have  done  with  the  old  order  of 
things  into  which  I  cannot  fit  myself.  I  shall  follow 
Southey,  Lloyd,  and  Allan  Cunningham  to  Bristol,  there 
to  hatch  the  golden  egg  we  have  been  sitting  upon — 
the  Pantisocracy. 

"  How  I  wish  you  and  Mary  would  join  us  in  our  flight 
to  the  New  World  !  Think  of  starting  upon  new  life, 
new  hopes,  new  work,  new  religion,  with  utter  freedom, 
in  that  land  of  the  free  !  We  have  studied  all  the  his 
tory,  philosophy,  religion,  science,  and  political  economy 
bearing  upon  a  socialistic  government,  and  have  a 
most  admirable  system.  Tis  a  colony  where  all  shall 
have  equal  rights  of  labor,  profit,  principle  and  gov 
ernment.  It  will  be  a  refuge  for  the  oppressed  of  all 
nations  and  sects.  We  will  show  the  beauty  of  having 
all  things  in  common,  which  the  apostles  practiced  and 
dropped,  after  a  short  time." 

Coleridge  settled  in  Bristol  with  Southey  and  Lovell, 
and  deep  were  the  schemes  these  plotters  laid. 

Southey's  Aunt    Tyler,    finding   him    determined, 


THE  DREAMS  OF  YOUTH.  67 

raised  such  a  scene  as  that  youth  was  not  likely  to  for 
get,  and  turned  him  out  forever  from  the  house  where 
he  had  always  been  treated  as  a  son. 

Thus  Coleridge  and  Southey  were  thrown  upon 
their  own  resources,  which  were  most  meager.  Southey's 
"  Joan  of  Arc  "  and  a  few  other  poems  had  been  pub 
lished  before  he  left  Oxford,  and  brought  him  a  small 
sum.  They  found  a  few  pupils  to  coach  for  college. 
Aunt  Tyler's  servant  "  Shad  "  had  also  grown  enthusi 
astic  over  the  new  plan,  and  was  likewise  turned  adrift 
for  meddling  with  such  heathenish  ideas. 

Coleridge,  on  seeing  the  lugubrious  youth  come  like 
a  whipped  dog,  exclaimed  :  "  Shad  goes  with  us  ;  he  is 
my  brother."  * 

Our  impecunious  socialists  also  wrote  poems  and 
magazine  articles,  which  a  Bristol  publisher,  Joseph 
Cottle,  himself  something  of  a  poet,  published,  giving 
them  a  slender  pittance. 

Coleridge  had  long  ago  awakened  from  his  early 
passion  for  the  young  milliner.  College  life  and  sol 
diering  had  driven  love  from  the  field,  and  an  unexpected 
meeting  with  Miss  Evans  in  a  Welsh  inn  had  been 
anything  but  a  pleasure,  since  the  vows  had  waned  to 
silence  and  indifference. 

Being  thrown  constantly  with  Southey's  fiancee  and 
her  family,  he  immediately  proceeded  to  fall  in  love 
with  her  sister.  Sarah  Fricker  seemed  just  the  wife 
for  him.  Southey  looked  somewhat  suspiciously  upon 
a  flame  so  hastily  kindled,  and  Lovell  doubted  its  expe 
diency,  seeing  Coleridge's  very  slim  prospects  of  mak 
ing  a  living.  But  Coleridge,  believing  in  Pantisocracy, 
— where  all  should  fare  alike, — was  much  enchanted 
*  "  Life  of  Coleridge.  "—HALL  CAINE. 


68         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

with  Miss  Sarah,  and  believed  himself  greatly  in  love. 
Those  great,  earnest  eyes,  and  the  illuminating  poet's 
glance,  fascinated  men  and  women,  and  Sarah's  heart 
soon  yielded. 

Our  dreamer  was  on  the  heights  now  ;  Pantisocracy, 
Southey,  America,  and  Miss  Fricker  were  rounding  into 
blessed  realities,  and  again  Fortune  seemed  beckoning 
to  him. 

He  wrote  poems  and  essays,  and  folios  of  impassioned 
eloquence  ;  but  Bristol,  the  most  unpoetic  spot  in  Eng 
land,  was  rather  a  limited  sphere  for  so  many  young 
poets.  So  Coleridge  decided  to  try  his  fortunes  for  the 
winter  in  London. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  SPRING  SONG. 

But  Love  is  indestructible, 

Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth  ; 

From  Heaven  it  came,  to  Heaven  returneth. 

Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 

And  hath  in  Heaven  its  perfect  rest. 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care ; 

But  the  harvest  time  of  Love  is  there. 

SOUTHEY. 

DURING  this  summer,  whilst  Coleridge  was  dreaming 
of  Pantisocracy  and  making  love,  Charles  Lamb  had 
had  a  sleeping  and  an  awakening. 

During  his  holiday  he  visited  the  fine  old  house  in 
Hertfordshire  where  his  grandmother  was  housekeeper. 
In  these  stately  halls  and  galleries,  with  their  lines  of 
ancestral  portraits  looking  smilingly  or  scornfully  down 
at  the  bright-eyed  youth,  he  loved  to  dream  his  dreams. 
The  family  being  absent  in  London  for  the  season, 
he  could  wander  at  will  through  the  great  library,  and 
browse  upon  the  rich  pastures  displayed  there.  He 
often  fancied  himself  the  young  heir,  and  sauntered 
amid  the  statuary  and  pictures  as  one  "  to  the  manner 
born." 

Good  Mrs.  Field  knew  well  that  her  sedate  young 
grandson  might  bask  in  these  rich  apartments  all  day 


70         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

without  the  slightest  danger  to  the  worshipful  contents. 
Here  Charles  reveled  in  the  beauty  of  the  mellow 
Titians  and  the  serene  Raphaels,  in  the  rich  tints  of  the 
Gainsboroughs  and  the  quaint  satire  of  the  Hogarths. 
They  so  haunted  his  imagination  that  his  first  posses 
sions  in  after-life  were  copies  of  some  of  these  pictures. 

In  his  fortnight's  visit  the  young  clerk,  with  Blue-coat 
garb  laid  aside  forever,  and  a  neat  suit  of  black  small 
clothes,  gladdened  old  Grannie's  heart. 

"  Eh  !  Charles,  but  ye  are  a  man  now." 

"  B-b-but  not  a  big  one,  Grannie,  nor  ever  shall  be,  I 
m-m-much  fear." 

"  But  a  most  bonnie,  comely  lad,  wi'  winsome  eyes, 
and  the  air  of  a  born  gentleman,"  said  Grannie. 

"  And  so  I  am,  grandam.  The  son  of  John  L.  Lamb 
of  Inner  Temple  can  hold  up  his  h-head  with  the 
b-best,  so  please  you,"  he  said,  with  a  good  hug  and  kiss, 
to  the  fond  old  lady,  who  gave  him  the  freedom  of  the 
house,  inwardly  wishing  my  lady  could  see  the  dainty, 
handsome  youth  who  whistled  cheerily  around  the  dull 
old  halls.  Who  knows  but  he  might  find  a  home  here 
as  secretary  to  my  lord,  and  then—  But 

"  The  dreams  of  age  and  the  dreams  of  youth 
Seem  wasted  thought  in  this  world's  hard  truth, 
And  there's  nothing  sure  but  Heaven." 

In  his  long  strolls  around  the  fine  old  manor,  beyond 
its  great  brick  walls,  covered  from  ground  to  turret 
with  the  rare,  rich  English  ivy,  he  met  a  timid,  blue- 
eyed  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen.  He  was  only  in  the 
springtime  of  life,  and  amid  the  buds  and  blossoms 
of  the  sweetest  land  upon  God's  earth,  the  two  young 
turtle-doves  must  fall  to  billing  and  cooing. 


A  SPRING  SONG.  71 

His  daily  strolls  turned  to  the  tiny  stone  cottage 
with  the  diamond-paned  casements,  and  the  roses 
clambering  to  the  thatched  roof. 

From  the  roses  the  pretty  human  bud  peeped  out, 
and,  espying  her  lover  in  the  distance,  flitted  down  the 
shady  path  to  the  shadow  of  the  giant  oaks,  where 
were  the  mossiest  rocks  and  the  largest  primroses  ; 
and  where  the  tiny  beck  purled  and  rippled  a  soft  ac 
companiment  to  the  pretty  babble  of  their  innocent 
young  hearts. 

"  Oh,  Alice  !  that  we  might  wander  thus  forever ! 
How  sweet  these  woodlands  are  !  how  sweeter  still  are 
thy  sunny  tresses  and  c-c-clear  blue  eyes  !  Thine  eyes 
are  just  the  c-c-color  of  this  stream  where  it  reflects 
the  sky  !  " 

"  I  think  your  eyes  are  like  my  gentle  doe's  eyes, 
which  I  have  always  loved  for  her  tender  looks,"  she 
said. 

And  so  they  chattered  on,  in  the  glad,  bright  to-day, 
not  heeding  the  to-morrow  that  would  find  them  far 
apart.  It  was  hard  for  Charles  to  -tear  himself  from 
this  short  dream  of  bliss,  and  wake  to  the  realizing 
of  what  he  had  done. 

How  could  he,  with  but  ^70  a  year,  and  a  sick 
mother  and  almost  imbecile  father  to  support,  dare  to 
think  or  speak  of  love  ?  Was  he  blind,  was  he  a 
fool  or  a  villain  to  win  that  dear,  innocent  heart  for 
mere  pleasure  ?  It  was  with  a  bitter  struggle  that  he 
left  her  without  a  promise  of  returning,  without  a  hope 
of  even  hearing  from  him.  Should  he  further  rob  that 
trusting  heart,  since  he  had  but  now  awakened  to  the 
theft  ? 

Alice  wondered  that  he  spoke  so  bitterly  of  the  part- 


72         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

ing,  with  no  word  of  future  meetings  or  letters.  She 
wondered  if  he  forgot  all  that  in  the  grief  of  saying 
farewell. 

Alas  !  he  remembered  only  too  well,  if  too  late  ;  and 
his  silence  about  the  future  was  more  generous  than 
idle  promises.  The  poor  child  pined  and  grieved 
through  the  sweet  summer.  By  the  winter,  she  had 
taught  herself  that  he  was  but  a  faithless  city  man  who 
was  only  amusing  himself  with  her ;  and  gradually  her 
proud  young  spirit  asserted  itself,  and  she  learned  to 
despise  the  young  lover  who  had  stolen  her  heart  for 
mere  pastime.  Charles  at  his  desk  in  the  dingy  rooms 
of  London  fared  so  badly  that  his  loving  sister,  seeing 
a  great  change  in  him,  tried  to  win  back  the  old  cheer 
fulness,  to  lure  him  to  see  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Sheridan 
and  the  Kembles,  whose  wondrous  representations  had 
always  delighted  him  beyond  all  else.  But  he  was  too 
listless  to  enjoy  the  cold  comfort  of  the  theater.  Even 
Hyde  Park  and  Piccadilly,  with  their  gay  throngs,  ceased 
to  interest  him.  His  work  at  the  dreary  desk  was  but 
a  loathsome  task  that  seemed  to  press  the  life  out 
of  him,  with  its  deadly  round  of  sameness.  All  was 
wrong,  all  was  upset  and  awry,  and  his  very  pleasures 
turned  to  loathing.  The  ceaseless  cry  in  his  heart 
was :  "  Why,  why,  did  I  spoil  her  dear  life  and  mine  ? 
Why  was  I  such  a  blind,  blind  fool  ?  If  she  would 
wait  for  me  these  dozen  years  it  would  be  the  same  ! 
Oh  God  !  the  bitterness  of  being  poor !  Others,  with 
no  better  chances  than  I,  can  stretch  out  their  arms  to 
take  thy  sweetest  blessings,  and  I,  because  I  have  so 
little  now,  must  forego  all  the  best  dreams  of  life  ! " 

The  daily,  nightly,  hourly  strain  was  tasking  his 
sensitive  spirit  beyond  its  powers.  An  attack  of  fever 


A  SPRING  SONG.  73 

and  delirium  left  his  mind  in  such  a  state  of  turmoil, 
that  they  feared  he  would  take  his  life.  Mary,  who 
watched  unceasingly  at  his  bedside,  now  knew  the 
secret  of  the  change  of  those  three  months.  But  as 
his  mind  grew  no  clearer,  it  became  necessary  to 
place  him  in  an  hospital,  where  he  could  have  constant 
watching  and  wise  medical  treatment.  She  and  John 
found  a  retreat  at  Hoxton,  and  taking  him  in  a  cab, 
they  drove  to  the  Insane  Asylum,  Charles  gazing 
with  a  stony  stare  that  saw  but  the  desolate  delusions 
of  his  own  brain. 

Six  weeks  of  careful  treatment  and  wholesome 
country  air  gradually  cured  the  mental  disorder  and 
soothed  the  wounded  heart.  He  returned  home  in 
December,  1795,  quite  restored,  and  wrote  at  once  to 
his  friend  Coleridge  at  Bristol  : 

"My  life  has  been  somewhat  diversified  of  late. 
The  six  weeks  that  finished  last  year  and  begun  this, 
your  humble  servant  spent  very  agreeably  in  a  mad 
house  at  Hoxton.  I  am  got  somewhat  rational,  now, 
and  don't  bite  any  one,  but  mad  I  was.  Can  your 
fantastic  imagination  picture  the  phantasmagoria  of 
facts,  fancies,  angels  and  devils  that  held  possession 
of  my  senses, — yes,  possession  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else.  I  felt  like  the  ghost  of  some  one  else  haunting 
the  shadow  of  myself — a  wild,  half-sad,  half-merry  ex 
istence,  with  fancy  and  lies  running  riot,  mixing  up 
the  real  and  the  imaginary  in  a  wholly  bewildering 
manner.  And  all  because  of  a  clear,  fair  face,  and 
some  foolish,  happy  days  that  are  gone  forever— yes, 
forever  /  Well !  what  next  ? — Yours, 

"  CAROLUS."  * 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — ALFRED  AINGER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DROPPED     STITCHES. 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more  ! 
.   .  .  But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

WORDSWORTH. 

SOON  after  Lamb's  return  to  London,  Coleridge  also 
came  to  town  for  the  winter  to  further  his  fortunes 
and  Pantisocracy.  They  resumed  their  old  intimacy, 
and  many  were  the  cosy  evenings  spent  over  pipes 
and  egg-hot  in  a  little  tavern  in  Newgate  Street, 
which  they  had  known,  in  Blue-coat  days,  as  the 
"  Salutation  and  Cat."  It  was  a  quaint  little  den  in  a 
narrow  court,  entered  through  an  archway  on  Newgate 
Street,  with  narrow  stone  hallway  and  slits  of  windows 
with  diamond  panes,  and  a  cheerful  back  parlor  with 
open  fire-place,  where  the  chops  could  be  grilled  before 
their  eyes,  and  their  noses  regaled  with  the  savory 
odor.  Perhaps  Goldsmith  and  Dr.  Johnson  had  en 
joyed  this  very  same  little  den  ;  it  was  within  easy  reach 
of  the  dwellings  of  both. 

Here  our  friends  made  the  dingy  room  blue  with 
tobacco  smoke  as  they  discussed  metaphysics,  sociology, 
and  poetry.  They  never  reached  the  end  of  their 
many  theories  and  hobbies,  and  the  talk  and  jokes 


DROPPED  STITCHES.  75 

rippled  on  like  a  merry  mountain  stream.  Here,  too, 
many  congenial  spirits  were  attracted  by  the  brilliant 
though  stammering  talk  of  the  young  clerk  of  India 
House,  whose  witticisms  and  logic  mingled  with  the 
poetry  of  his  more  brilliant  companion,  who  was 
trimming  his  wings  for  flight. 

This  cultured  scholar  and  metaphysician,  who  was 
more  than  a  match  for  Cambridge  professors,  yet  as 
dreamy  as  a  wild- wood  bird  warbling  its  carols,  would 
talk  the  night  away.  Lamb  had  greatly  recovered 
health  and  spirits  since  his  friend's  return  to  London, 
and,  with  his  kindly  satire  and  inimitable  puns,  was 
as  irrepressible  as  newly-opened  champagne. 

At  Little  Queen  Street,  Mary  was  still  nursing  the 
sick  mother  day  and  night,  and  helping  to  eke  out 
Charles's  small  salary  by  sewing,  until  the  patient  head 
seemed  reeling  with  its  pain  and  weariness.  It  was 
her  delight  to  have  Charles  repeat  their  fun  and  wis 
dom,  and  she  joyfully  welcomed  her  old  favorite, 
Coleridge,  on  his  Sunday  visits. 

Mary  and  Charles  were  keenly  interested  in  the 
Pantisocratic  scheme,  and  were  never  weary  of  hearing 
Coleridge  expatiate  upon  it.  George  Dyer,  author  of 
"  Complaints  of  the  Poor  "  and  other  works,  was  struck 
with  the  plan.  He  often  joined  them  at  the  "  Salutation 
and  Cat  "  and  discussed  it.  Dr.  Priestley,  the  eminent 
metaphysician  and  theologian,  also  thought  well  of  it 
and  promised  aid.  A  friend  of  Coleridge,  who  had 
been  in  America,  described  graphically  the  wonders 
and  advantages  of  that  splendid  republic,  picturing 
the  beauties  of  the  Susquehanna  and  its  surroundings. 
They  calculated  that  a  few  thousand  pounds  would  buy 
the  hundred  acres  and  the  needed  outfit,  and  a  dozen 


7 6         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

men  could  easily  clear  and  cultivate  that  in  six  months. 
They  would  have  an  experienced  builder  among  them, 
who  could  run  up  their  buildings  between  times,  and 
somebody  who  could  tell  them  just  where  to  locate, 
and  with  that  soil  and  sunshine  their  crops  would  easily 
support  the  community,  and  their  wives  could  spin  the 
flax  and  weave  their  linen.  They  could  write  for  the 
magazines  and  papers  of  the  adjoining  cities  of  New 
York,  Philadelphia,  and  Baltimore,  which  were  flourish 
ing  towns. 

Winter,  he  was  obliged  to  confess,  was  rather  differ 
ent  from  an  English  winter.  Snow  lay  on  the  ground 
during  several  months,  and  the  rivers  sometimes  be 
came  frozen  over  solid,  as  in  Holland  ;  and  in  the 
spring  the  ice-cakes  often  floated  together  and  formed 
great  walls  and  dams,  which  sometimes  caused  floods. 
But  winter,  with  an  abundance  of  fuel  from  the  great 
forests  everywhere,  was  a  fine  time  for  study  and 
writing  and  building  fences,  etc.,  for  the  coming  season. 
He  was  not  sure  about  the  maples  in  this  locality  ;  but 
in  some  places  one  had  only  to  tap  the  maple  trees  in 
winter,  and  out  poured  gallons  of  delicious  syrup  for 
making  sugar.  It  was  a  wonderful  country  !  In  the 
summer,  everywhere  along  the  roadsides,  cherry  trees 
bore  fruit,  and  every  country  path  and  lane  was  bor 
dered  with  raspberry  and  blackberry  bushes  laden 
with  most  delicious  fruit,  ready  for  any  passer  to  enjoy 
and  carry  home.  It  was  certainly  a  land  "  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey,"  and  its  riches  of  nature  were 
free  to  all.  He  had  not  found  coined  gold  easy  to 
pick  up,  but  any  quantity  of  the  ore  could  be  dug  from 
the  ground  in  certain  regions,  and  silver  too.  This 
was  faithfully  reported  to  Southey  and  the  rest  of  the 


DROPPED  STITCHES.  77 

Brotherhood,  and  Pantisocracy  grew  apace.  They 
had  found  the  right  spot  for  such  a  community  in  a 
land  that  offered  them  fruit  at  every  turn,  without  even 
the  need  of  culture. 

But,  as  the  winter  advanced,  and  Coleridge  grew 
more  absorbed  in  his  London  friends  and  pursuits,  his 
correspondence  with  his  Bristol  friends  languished. 
After  awhile,  he  forgot  to  write  to  Southey,  and  even 
to  his  sweetheart,  who  became  alarmed  at  her  absent 
lover's  waning  passion. 

Towards  spring  Southey  took  the  Bristol  coach  for 
London,  a  long  journey  in  those  days.  He  hunted  up 
the  truant  swain,  and  reproached  him  for* his  neglect, 
but  finding  him  writing  constantly  for  the  "  Morning 
Chronicle,"  furthering  their  cause,  and  faithful  in 
heart  to  Miss  Fricker,  he  devoted  his  stay  in  London 
to  making  the  acquaintance  of  Charles  Lamb  and 
Coleridge's  other  intimates.  Coleridge  returned  with 
Southey  to  Bristol,  where  the  love-making  progressed  so 
rapidly,  that  nothing  would  do  but  immediate  marriage. 
He  felt  the  ground  beneath  his  feet  firm  enough  for 
it,  because  having  in  Bristol  and  the  vicinity  lectured 
upon  the  French  Revolution,  and  upon  the  Civil  War 
and  Charles  I.  ;  also  upon  "  Revealed  Religion,"  and  the 
necessity  of  having  reason  and  faith  go  hand  in  hand, 
his  wonderful  eloquence  had  made  him  very  popular. 

Southey  and  Lovell  disapproved  of  a  speedy  mar 
riage,  knowing  that  Coleridge  was  earning  but  a  bare 
subsistence.  But  Joseph  Cottle,  the  poetic  publisher  of 
Bristol,  had  great  faith  in  the  young  poet's  rising  star, 
and  offered  him  thirty  guineas,  in  advance,  for  a  vol 
ume  of  poems,  and  upon  this  slight  basis  of  ready 
money  Coleridge  insisted  upon  the  wedding. 


CHAPTER  X. 

LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE. 

Low  was  our  pretty  Cot,  our  tallest  rose 
Peep'd  at  the  chamber  window.     \Ve  could  hear 
At  silent  noon  and  eve,  and  early  morn, 
The  sea's  faint  murmur.     In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtles  blossom'd  ;  and  across  the  porch 
Thick  jasmines  twined  :  the  little  landscape  round 
Was  green  and  woody,  and  refresh 'd  the  eye. 
It  was  a  spot  which  you  might  aptly  call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion. 

COLERIDGE. 

ON  a  golden  day  of  October,  1795,  when  the  heather 
along  the  hillsides  was  lying  rosy  and  purple,  and  the 
gorse  and  broom  had  attained  their  full  plumage  along 
the  woodsides,  and  the  ferns  were  heavy  with  their 
russet  seed-scales,  the  wedding  chimes  pealed  from 
the  ivy-crowned  spire  of  St.  Mary's  Church,  Redcliffe. 
The  small  wedding  party  included,  besides  the  principals, 
Southey  and  his  fiancee,  Edith  Fricker,  acting  as  brides 
maid  and  groomsman,  and  a  goodly  number  of  our  Pan- 
tisocratic  friends  and  Bristol  acquaintances.  The  bride 
was  in  simple  dove-colored  silk,  with  the  huge  sleeves 
and  short  waist  of  the  times,  and  Coleridge  in  new 
brown  small-clothes,  with  long  coat  and  high  rolling  col 
lar  and  wide  neckerchief,  and  both  felt  supremely  happy. 

At  Clevedon,  near  Bristol,  they  had  found  a  tiny, 
one-story  rose-embowered  cottage,  with  diamond-paned 
windows  and  thatched  roof. 


L O  VE  IN  A  CO  TTA  GE.  79 

Here  they  came  after  the  wedding,  and  the  bride 
looked  with  courageous  heart  upon  the  bare  walls  and 
rather  meager  furniture,  feeling  it  was  indeed  love  in 
a  cottage,  a  very  tiny  one,  yet  quite  large  enough  for 
two  people  who  were  going  to  turn  farmer  and  dairy 
maid  in  America.  What  if  the  whitewashed  walls 
were  bare,  her  poet's  voice  would  fill  the  place  with 
music  and  pictures  !  What  if  the  tiny  kitchen  was  the 
only  other  room,  did  not  the  roses  peep  into  the  win 
dows  and  encircle  the  door  like  a  bridal  wreath — these 
glorious  cloth-of-gold  roses  that  pressed  their  soft  cheeks 
against  the  ragged  stone  wall  ! 

The  Severn  rippled  along  within  sight  of  the  front 
door,  promising  fishing  and  boating  for  their  idle  hours, 
and  the  oaks  and  vines  almost  hid  the  tiny  house,  like  a 
nest,  with  one  great  old  yew  stretching  long,  shadowy  arms 
as  if  to  protect  the  little  bower.  So  poetry,  sweetness, 
and  love  folded  their  wings  and  brooded  in  this  charm 
ing  nest.  A  speedy  letter  reached  Mr.  Cottle,  praying 
him  to  send  by  return  coach :  "  A  candle-box,  two 
glasses  for  wash-handstand,  one  dust-pan,  one  small 
tin  tea-kettle,  one  pair  of  candlesticks,  a  Bible,  a  keg  of 
porter."  *  In  due  time  these  and  other  forgotten  neces 
saries  arrived,  and  the  little  wife  was  singing  like  a  bird, 
finding  the  simple  housekeeping  more  like  play  than 
work — save  when  the  chimney  smoked  and  the  roof 
leaked. 

Different  offers  of  employment  came  to  Coleridge  in 
the  months  following.  He  tried  a  tutorship  at  Bristol, 
but  the  exceeding  stupidity  of  his  pupils  drove  him  to 
abandon  that  effort.  A  Unitarian  pulpit  was  offered 
him,  and  he  preached  for  some  little  time  for  the 

*  "  Homes  and  Haunts  of  British  Poets."— WM.  HOWITT. 


8o         THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

delighted  people  ;  but  journalism  seemed  better  suited 
to  his  tastes.  He  wrote  for  the  "  Morning  Chronicle  " 
and  "  The  Critical  Review." 

The  question  of  daily  bread  was  finally  solved  by 
starting  the  project  of  a  weekly  journal.  He  canvassed 
the  country  and  the  midland  counties,  finding  much  to 
discourage  and  little  to  encourage.  But  he  started 
"  The  Watchman,"  a  miscellany  of  thirty-two  pages, 
containing  :  ist,  History  of  the  domestic  and  foreign 
policy  of  earlier  days.  2nd,  Speeches  in  both  Houses 
of  Parliament.  3rd,  Original  essays  and  poems.  4th, 
Resume  of  interesting  and  important  events. 

The  new  editor  found  great  discouragement,  in  the 
stolidity  of  farmers  and  the  stupidity  of  manufacturers, 
who  did  not  appreciate  the  new  project  to  the  extent  of 
4d.  per  week.  He  was  the  ablest  canvasser  who  ever 
spent  breath  in  talking  up  a  paper.  He  smoked 
with  farmers  until  his  head  reeled  ;  he  argued  with 
"  Brummagem  "  tradesmen  until  his  temper  failed  ;  but 
with  all  his  eloquence  he  gained  few  subscriptions. 
Many  were  swayed  by  his  eloquence  and  promised 
subscriptions,  but  failed  to  pay  when  the  magazine 
was  sent.  He  worked  early  and  late,  writing  most  of 
the  articles  himself.  Ten  numbers  only  of  "  The 
Watchman "  were  issued,  before,  between  poor  sub 
scriptions,  heavy  expenses,  paper  tax,  and  cost  of 
printing,  the  funds  were  exhausted,  and  Coleridge,  to 
his  bitter  disappointment,  was  forced  to  abandon  the 
enterprise.  To  add  to  the  cloud  of  darkness  that 
was  lowering  over  him,  the  Pantisocracy  scheme 
seemed  dying  out.  For  some  months  Southey  had 
been  growing  cooler  over  it,  while  Lovell  and  Burnet 
were  also  losing  interest.  Southey  found  that  news- 


LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE.  81 

paper  work  in  England  paid  better  than  farming  in 
America.  He  had  a  tempting  offer  from  his  Uncle 
Hill  to  go  with  him,  as  secretary,  to  Spain.  The 
chances  for  writing  from  these  new  vistas  of  experience 
and  scenery  were  not  to  be  lost ;  so  he  was  hastily 
married  to  Edith  Fricker,  and  leaving  his  disconsolate 
bride  at  the  church  door  to  the  care  of  her  brother-in- 
law,  Lovell,  he  sailed  with  his  uncle.  The  raising  of 
the  necessary  ^"2,000  now  seemed  an  utter  impossibility 
to  the  impecunious  enthusiasts ;  so,  with  the  opening 
of  new  interests  to  some,  the  dream  slowly  faded  out, 
and  the  dreamers  were  forced  to  turn  their  waking 
thoughts  to  the  bread-winning  struggle  which  leaves 
little  time  for  visions. 

When  Coleridge  returned  from  his  canvassing  cam 
paign,  he  found  a  sobered  and  depressed  little  wife 
awaiting  him.  He  looked  anxiously  at  the  clouded 
brow  and  veiled  eyes. 

"  Why,  my  love,  where  is  the  sunshine  I  left  in  the 
little  nest  ?  "  he  asked,  taking  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Sunshine,  indeed  !  "  wailed  Sarah.  "  It  has  rained 
until  the  chickens  have  all  been  washed  into  the  Sev 
ern  ;  and  the  chimney  has  smoked  until  I  am  like  a 

side  of  beef and  oh,  Esteecee,  it  was  bitterly  lonely 

in  all  those  weeks,  with  no  one  to  speak  to  me,  or  even 
to  bring  me  a  letter.  The  very  postman  thinks  this 
place  too  far  to  come  to." 

"And  I,'"'  said  Coleridge,  rather  grimly — "do  you 
think  I  have  been  reveling  in  fun  and  fancy  ?  Imagine 
me  haranguing  '  Brummagem  '  tradesmen  by  the  hour 
for  a  few  fourpenny  subscriptions.  Let  us  change 
places  ;  you  canvass,  and  I'll  sit  by  the  fire  and  smoke 
with  the  chimney." 


82         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  Oh,  my  love,"  said  Sarah,  "  I  did  not  mean  to 
greet  thee  with  complaints ;  but  in  truth  it  has  been 
solitary,  and  then — then — Esteecee,"  and  she  hid  her 
face  upon  his  bosom,  "  I  am  afraid,!  see  months  before 
me  when  I  dare  not  be  alone ;  I  must  be  near  women- 
kind,"  she  said,  with  quick  blushes  scorching  her  face. 

And  Coleridge  guessed  the  secret  of  the  new  loneli 
ness,  and  agreed  that  before  another  winter  they  must 
be  nearer  friends.  He,  too,  in  his  writing,  felt  the  need 
of  reaching  libraries  and  publishers. 

So  the  tiny  nest  was  forsaken,  with  its  roses,  its 
jasmines,  and  its  leafy  bowers,  and  they  moved  to  Bris 
tol  for  the  winter. 

Mr.  Poole,  of  Nether  Stowey,  a  wealthy  manufacturer 
and  a  warm  friend  of  Coleridge,  persuaded  the  young 
couple  to  take  a  small  cottage  near  him. 

As  the  rent  was  but  £j  a  year,  and  the  cottage  a 
pretty  tidy  place,  they  concluded  to  move  there. 

"  We  are  settled  again,"  Coleridge  wrote  to  Lamb, 
"  in  another  little  nest  with  its  roses  and  gardens.  You 
should  see  my  hands  from  tilling  that  garden.  No 
farmer's  lout  e'er  toiled  with  more  honest  sweat  than 
I,  in  furrowing,  sowing,  planting  that  sacred  soil. 
Come  to  us,  friend,  and  see  the  bantling  and  the  nest. 
We  long  to  see  thy  sunny  smile  amid  our  Quantock  hills. 
Sarah  sends  thee  greeting  and  bids  thee  come."  * 

At  the  little  cottage  was  another  inmate.  Charles 
Lloyd,  the  son  of  a  banker  of  Birmingham,  having  be 
come  charmed  with  Coleridge  and  his  poetry  and  Panti- 
socracy,  his  father  persuaded  Coleridge  to  take  the  young 
man  as  a  boarder,  that  he  might  have  the  advantage 
of  the  poet's  conversation,  and  the  benefit  of  his  poetic 
*  "  Life  of  Coleridge." — HALL  CAINK. 


LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE.  83 

tastes  and  proclivities.  As  Lloyd  was  willing  to  pay 
well,  Sarah  rather  reluctantly  consented  to  receiving 
him  into  the  sanctity  of  her  home. 

Soon  after  they  were  settled,  whilst  Coleridge  was 
absent  from  home  on  a  visit,  a  little  son  was  born.  In 
a  tumult  of  delight,  the  young  poet  hastened  home  to 
greet  his  child,  commemorating  the  event  by  several 
pretty  sonnets. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  TRAGEDY. 

In  fancy  (well  I  know) — 

From  business  wandering  far  and  local  cares, 
Thou  creepest  round  a  dear-loved  sister's  bed, 
With  noiseless  step,  and  watchest  the  faint  look, 
Soothing  each  pang  with  fond  solicitude 
And  tenderest  tones,  medicinal  of  love. 

COLERIDGE. 

BUT,  poor  Lamb !  a  tragedy  was  to  prevent  the  coveted 
visit — a  shadow,  that  would  forever  darken  his  patient 
life. 

Ever  since  his  return  from  the  asylum,  Mary  had 
done  her  best  to  brighten  him  and  help  him  forget  his 
past.  She  was  his  constant  companion,  when  she  could 
escape  from  the  fretful  mother's  sick-room.  She  plod 
ded  on  with  the  sewing,  and  vainly  tried  to  finish  the 
gowns  promised  her  customers. 

But  nights  of  unrest  and  nursing,  after  days  of  sew 
ing  and  ceaseless  headaches,  caused  such  depression, 
that  even  the  beloved  brother  could  no  longer  win  a 
smile.  Poverty  had  overtaxed  the  strength  she  so 
needed  for  nursing  the  sick  mother  and  attending  to 
the  querulous  father.  Charles  saw  with  alarm  the 
hopeless  cloud  of  melancholy  settling  upon  her  cheer 
ful  spirit,  and  several  attacks  of  nervous  excitement 
warned  him  of  the  terrible  strain. 

"She  shall  have  rest  and  medicine,"  said  Charles; 


A   TRAGEDY.  85 

"her  dear  life  shall  not  be  wrecked  by  this  cursed 
poverty." 

He  called  to  see  a  skillful  apothecary,  but  he  was  out, 
and  so  the  matter  rested  over  night. 

The  next  day,  upon  his  return  from  India  House,  he 
heard  shrieks  issuing  from  the  upper  room,  and  flying 
upstairs  past  the  screaming,  terrified  little  maid,  he 
found  poor  Mary,  with  eyes  gleaming  in  unconscious 
mania,  rushing  at  her  helpless  mother  with  the  carving- 
knife. 

Her  father,  in  trying  to  wrest  the  knife  from  her, 
was  cut,  and  before  Charles  could  reach  her,  the 
knife  was  plunged  into  their  mother's  heart,  and  the 
mad  woman  was  flourishing  it  wildly  for  fresh  victims. 
She  did  not  know  Charles,  and  they  struggled  for  the 
knife.  He  gained  it,  and  she  hurled  forks  and  knives 
at  every  one  in  sight,  believing  she  was  defending  her 
life  from  attack.  Finally,  Charles  and  some  men  who 
had  heard  the  noise,  and  had  come  to  his  aid,  over 
powered  her  and  bound  her  arms. 

She  knew  nothing  of  the  poor  bleeding  body  which 
they  carried  to  the  bed,  but  was  taken,  raving  and 
singing,  to  the  insane  asylum,  where  a  few  months 
before  Charles  had  recovered  from  his  first  and  last 
spell  of  madness. 

The  shock  to  poor  old  Aunt  Hetty  kept  her  ill  for 
weeks,  and  nearly  destroyed  her  kind  old  wits. 
Neighbors  poured  in,  and  curiosity  peered  upon  the 
tragedy  until  Charles  claimed  protection  from  the 
police,  and  quietly  buried  the  murdered  mother,  carry 
ing  the  helpless  father  and  aunt  to  another  home  in  a 
different  part  of  the  city — to  Pentonville.  Here  they 
lived  for  a  couple  of  years. 


86         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

After  the  awful  event,  the  papers  of  the  day  were 
most  considerate  and  reticent,  not  making  capital  out 
of  each  harassing  detail,  as  is  too  much  the  custom  in 
these  later  times.  The  London  "  Times  "  merely  gave 
the  sad,  unvarnished  facts  of  the  tragedy. 

Names  were  suppressed,  and  there  was  no  gloating 
over  scenes  and  details. 

No  :  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  personality  of  this 
horror.  The  young  clerk's  grief  was  too  sacred  to  be 
paraded  before  the  public  as  a  bit  of  entertaining  news. 
The  London  "  Times  "  only  spoke  of  "the  sad  death  of 
an  elderly  woman,  by  the  frenzied  hand  of  an  insane 

daughter,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Holborn The 

coroner's  jury,  after  sifting  all  the  evidence,  found  the 
verdict — Lunacy" 

Even  after  this  generous  reticence  of  the  press, 
Lamb's  sensitive  spirit  shrank  from  the  publicity  inev 
itably  connected  with  such  an  affair.  He  felt  the 
awful  loneliness  of  soul  that  such  an  experience 
gives. 

Charles  visited  Mary  as  often  as  allowed,  and  grad 
ually  saw  the  wild  light  softening  in  the  dark  eyes,  and 
the  sweet,  natural  tenderness  returning.  The  recovery 
was  slow,  but  with  it  came  for  a  time  entire  oblivion 
of  the  awful  deed  of  madness. 

After  a  few  months,  when  reason  and  calmness  had 
returned,  Charles  pleaded  to  have  Mary  released  from 
surveillance  in  the  asylum,  promising  to  be  surety 
for  her  during  the  remainder  of  their  lives.  Their 
brother  John,  who  had  assumed  neither  responsibility 
nor  expense,  protested  against  her  release — fearing, 
perhaps,  that  some  of  the  care  or  odium  might  fall  on 
him.  But  Charles  urged  and  entreated,  promising  to 


A   TRAGEDY.  87 

take  the  entire  charge  upon  himself  as  soon  as  his 
father's  death  would  leave  him  free  to  care  for  Mary. 
He  finally  gained  the  magistrate's  consent  by  signing 
a  pledge  to  watch  over  his  sister  while  he  lived — a 
terrible  responsibility  for  a  man  of  twenty-one  years  ! 
No  hope  of  wife  or  child,  no  hope  of  wealth  or  fame — 
even  in  the  far  future  !  He  was  entangled  in  the 
meshes  of  a  horrible  tragedy,  that  was  like  the  iron 
hand  of  Fate ;  and  he  was  forever  bound  to  a  sister 
whose  future  was  as  uncertain  as  the  wind. 

Here  were  calamities  to  either  craze  or  sober  a  man. 
Poor  Charles  !  whose  heart  had  preyed  upon  his  reason 
when  he  had  to  crush  out  his  love-dream,  now  arose 
in  new  strength.  He  threw  himself  upon  his  knees 
and  prayed  long  and  earnestly  for  guidance  and  strength 
in  these  terrible  days.  If  his  spirit  quailed  before  such 
an  abyss  of  misery,  his  very  agony  of  grief  led  him  to 
the  only  source  of  comfort  and  help. 

He  remembered  the  words,  "Underneath  are  the 
everlasting  arms,"  and  he  cried  out  in  helpless  agony  : 
"Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him." 

And  the  strength  came  from  that  Infinite  Mind  that 
alone  brings  strength  out  of  weakness. 

Fancy  this  genial  young  fellow  of  twenty-one  years 
hastening  from  his  desk  day  by  day  to  the  distant  rooms, 
and  to  the  poor,  invalid  father,  who  demanded  constant 
amusement  with  cribbage  and  cards !  Patiently,  tenderly^ 
the  man  who  seemed  the  tool  of  fate  gave  his  evenings 
to  the  imbecile  father,  who  only  complained  if  the  tired 
clerk  wanted  a  little  rest  before  the  evening  games.  "  If 
you  cannot  play  when  you  come  home,  why  need 
you  come  home  at  all  ?  "  he  whined.  The  argument 
being  unanswerable,  Charles  put  aside  book  or  paper 


88         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

with  a  most  reluctant  sigh.  The  elegant  John  had, 
long  before  the  tragedy,  fled  into  comfortable  bachelor 
quarters,  and  now  kept  aloof  more  than  ever ;  never 
offering  aid  in  supporting  either  father  or  sister. 

Lamb's  heart  turned  for  comfort  to  his  friend  Cole 
ridge,  and  his  letters  at  this  time  were  mirrors  of  the 
pathos  of  his  lot  and  the  patience  of  his  soul. 

Coleridge  was  sitting  before  his  hearthstone,  where 
the  blazing  logs  cast  long  rays  of  light  and  flickering 
shadows  upon  the  floor,  with  the  cooing  baby  on  his 
knee,  when  Lamb's  letter  was  brought  by  the  carrier. 

"  My  God  !  Sarah,  Sarah,  come  read  this  letter," 
he  said,  "  I  think  my  eyes  are  playing  me  false." 

With  frightened,  tearful  eyes  she  read  aloud : 

"Sept.,  1796. 

"  MY  DEAREST  FRIEND, — White,  or  some  of  my 
friends,  or  the  public  papers,  by  this  time  may  have 
informed  you  of  the  terrible  calamities  that  have  fallen 
on  our  family.  .  .  .  My  poor,  dear,  dearest  sister,  in  a  fit 
of  insanity,  has  been  the  death  of  her  own  mother.  I  was 
at  hand  only  time  enough  to  snatch  the  knife  out  of 
her  grasp.  She  is  at  present  in  a  madhouse,  from 
whence  I  fear  she  must  be  moved  to  an  hospital.  God 
has  preserved  to  me  my  senses.  I  eat  and  drink  and 
sleep,  and  have  my  judgment,  I  believe,  very  sound. 
My  poor  father  was  slightly  wounded,  and  I  am  left  to 
take  care  of  him  and  my  aunt.  .  .  .  Write  as  religious  a 
letter  as  possible,  but  no  mention  of  what  is  gone  and 
done  with.  With  me,  *  the  former  things  are  passed 
away,'  and  I  have  something  more  to  do  than  to  feel. 
God  Almighty  have  us  well  in  His  keeping.  .  .  .  Mention 
nothing  of  poetry  ;  I  have  destroyed  every  vestige  of 
vanities  of  that  kind,  .  .  . 


A   TRAGEDY.  89 

"  I  charge  you  don't  think  of  coming  to  see  me. 
Write.  I  will  not  see  you  if  you  come.  God  Almighty 
love  you  and  all  of  us. 

"  C.  LAMB."  * 

Together  they  wept  over  the  dreadful  blow  to  their 
friend,  and  over  his  sad,  brave  letter.  Coleridge  paced 
the  floor  and  wept,  and  for  hours  could  not  calm  him 
self  to  write  a  reply  to  such  sorrow.  Finally,  feeling 
he  must  not  delay  sending  what  comfort  he  could, 
he  wrote  : 

"DEAREST  BROTHER, — 

"  Your  letter  struck  me  with  a  mighty  horror. 
It  rushed  upon  me  and  stupefied  my  feelings.  You 
bid  me  write  a  religious  letter.  I  am  not  a  man  who 
would  attempt  to  insult  the  greatness  of  your  agony  by 
any  other  consolation.  Heaven  knows  that  in  the 
easiest  fortune  there  is  much  dissatisfaction  and  wear 
iness  of  spirit,  much  that  asks  for  patience  and  resig 
nation  ;  but  in  scenes  like  these,  that  shake  the  dwell 
ing  and  make  the  heart  tremble,  there  is  no  middle 
way  between  despair  and  the  yielding  of  the  whole 
spirit  to  the  guidance  of  faith.  And  surely  it  is  a  mat 
ter  of  joy  that  your  faith  in  Jesus  has  been  preserved. 
The  Comforter  that  should  relieve  you  is  not  far  from  you. 
But  as  you  are  a  Christian,  in  the  name  of  the  Saviour 
who  was  filled  with  bitterness,  and  made  drunken  with 
wormwood,  I  conjure  you  to  have  recourse  to  frequent 
prayer  to  His  God  and  your  God — the  God  of  mercies 
and  Father  of  all  comfort.  Your  poor  father  is,  I  hope, 
almost  senseless  to  the  calamity  ;  the  unconscious  in- 

*"  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.'1 — AINGER. 


90      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

strument  of  Divine  Providence  knows  it  not ;  and 
your  mother  is  in  heaven.  It  is  sweet  to  be  roused 
from  a  frightful  dream  by  the  song  of  birds  and  the 
bright  rays  of  morning.  Ah!  how  infinitely  more  sweet 
to  be  awakened  from  the  blackness  and  amazement  of 
sudden  horror  by  the  glories  of  God  manifest  amid  the 
hallelujahs  of  angels  !  .  .  .  . 

"  As  to  yourself,  I  approve  of  your  abandoning  what 
you  justly  call  '  vanities.'  I  look  upon  you  as  a  man 
called  by  sorrow  and  anguish,  and  a  strange  desola 
tion  of  hopes,  into  quietness,  and  a  soul  set  apart  and 
made  peculiar  to  God.  We  cannot  arrive  at  any  por 
tion  of  heavenly  bliss,  without,  in  some  measure,  imitat 
ing  Christ.  And  they  arrive  at  the  largest  inheritance 
who  imitate  the  most  difficult  parts  of  His  character, 
and  bowed  down,  and  crushed  under  foot,  cry  in  full 
ness  of  faith  :  *  Father,  Thy  will  be  done.'  I  wish  above 
measure  to  have  you,  for  a  little  while,  here.  No 
visitors  shall  blow  on  the  nakedness  of  your  feelings. 
You  shall  be  quiet,  that  your  spirit  may  be  healed.  I 
see  no  possible  objection,  unless  your  father's  help 
lessness  prevent  you,  and  unless  you  are  necessary  to 
him.  If  this  be  not  the  case,  I  charge  you  write  me 
that  you  will  come.  I  charge  you,  dearest  friend,  not 
to  dare  encourage  gloom  or  despair.  You  are  a  tem 
porary  sharer  in  human  miseries,  that  you  may  be 
an  eternal  partaker  of  the  Divine  nature.  Come  to 
me.  S.  T.  C."* 

This  letter,  coming  into  Charles  Lamb's  desolation, 
brought  the  consolation  of  friendship.  Written  by 
one  Unitarian  to  another,  it  was  yet  full  of  practical 

*"  Life  of  Coleridge." — HALL  CAINE. 


A   TRAGEDY.  91 

Christianity,  upon  the  plane  where  all  who  love  and 
serve  Jesus  Christ  can  meet. 

Charles  immediately  replied  : 

"Oct.  3,  1796. 

"  MY  DEAREST  FRIEND, — Your  letter  was  an  ines 
timable  treasure  to  me.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  you,  I 
know,  to  know  that  our  prospects  are  somewhat  brighter. 
My  poor  dear,  dearest  sister,  the  unhappy  and  uncon 
scious  instrument  of  the  Almighty's  judgments  on  our 
house,  is  restored  to  her  senses — to  a  dreadful  sense 
and  recollection  of  what  has  passed — awful  to  her 
mind.  .  .  .  but  tempered  with  religious  resignation  and 
the  reasonings  of  a  sound  judgment,  which  in  this  early 
stage  knows  how  to  distinguish  between  a  deed  com 
mitted  in  a  transient  fit  of  frenzy,  and  the  terrible  guilt 
of  a  mother's  murder.  I  have  seen  her.  I  found  her, 
this  morning,  calm  and  serene — far,  very  far  from  an 
indecent,  forgetful  serenity,  She  has  a  most  affectionate 
and  tender  concern  for  what  has  happened.  Indeed, 
from  the  beginning — frightful  and  hopeless  as  her 
disorder  seemed — I  had  confidence  enough  in  her 
strength  of  mind  and  religious  principle  to  look  forward 
to  a  time  when  even  she  might  recover  tranquillity.  God 
be  praised,  Coleridge  !  wonderful  as  it  is  to  tell,  I  have 
never  once  been  otherwise  than  collected  and  calm  ; 
even  on  the  dreadful  day,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  terrible 
scene,  I  preserved  a  tranquillity  which  bystanders  may 
have  construed  into  indifference — a  tranquillity  not  of 
despair.  Is  it  folly  or  sin  in  me  to  say  that  it  was  a 
religious  principle  that  most  supported  me  ?....!  closed 
not  my  eyes  in  sleep  that  night ;  but  lay  without  terrors 
and  without  despair.  I  have  lost  no  sleep  since.  I  had 
been  long  used  not  to  rest  in  things  of  sense — had 


92          THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE 

endeavored  after  a  comprehension  of  mind,  unsatisfied 
with  the  '  ignorant  present  time,'  and  this  kept  me  up. 
I  had  the  whole  weight  of  the  family  thrown  on  me ; 
for  my  brother,  little  disposed  (I  speak  not  without 
tenderness  for  him)  at  any  time  to  take  care  of  olJ 
age  and  infirmities,  had  now  with  his  bad  leg,  ['twas 
broken  from  a  fall]  an  exemption  from  such  duties,  and 
I  was  now  left  alone.  .  .  . 

"  Our  friends  have  been  very  good.  Sam  Le  Grice, 
who  was  then  in  town,  was  with  me  the  first  three  or 
four  days,  and  was  as  a  brother  to  me ;  gave  up  every 
hour  of  his  time  to  the  very  hurting  of  his  health  and 
spirits  in  constant  attendance  and  humoring  my  poor 
father  ;  talked  with  him,  read  to  him,  played  at  cribbage 
with  him  (for  so  short  is  the  old  man's  recollection,  that 
he  was  playing  at  cards  as  though  nothing  had  hap 
pened,  while  the  coroner's  inquest  was  sitting -over  the 
way).  Samuel  wept  tenderly  when  he  went  away  ;  for 
his  mother  wrote  him  a  severe  letter  on  his  loitering  so 
long  in  town,  and  he  was  forced  to  go.  .  .  . 

"  A  gentleman,  brother  to  my  godmother  (from  whom 
we  never  had  right  or  reason  to  expect  any  such 
assistance),  sent  my  father  £20  ;  and  to  crown  all  these 
— God's  blessings  to  our  family — an  old  lady,  a  cousin 
of  my  father  and  aunt's,  a  gentlewoman  of  fortune,  is  to 
take  my  aunt,  and  make  her  comfortable  for  the  short 
remainder  of  her  days.  My  aunt ....  has  generously 
given  up  the  interest  of  her  little  money  (which  was 
formerly  paid  my  father  for  her  board)  wholly  and  solely 
to  my  sister's'  use.  Reckoning  this,  we  have,  Daddy 
and  I,  for  our  two  selves,  and  an  old  maid-servant 
to  look  after  him  when  I  am  out.  .  .  .  £iSo  a  year, 
out  of  which  we  can  spare  ,£50  or  £60  at  least  for 


A   TRAGEDY. 


93 


Mary,  while  she  stays  at  Islington,  where  she  must  and 
shall  stay  during  her  father's  life,  for  his  and  her 
comfort.  I  know  John  will  make  speeches  about  it ; 
but  she  shall  not  go  into  an  hospital.  .  .  .  Poor  thing, 
they  say  she  was  but  the  other  morning  saying  she 
knew  she  must  go  to  Bethlem  for  life ;  that  one  of  her 
brothers  would  have  it  so  ;  but  the  other  would  wish 
it  not,  but  be  obliged  to  go  with  the  stream  ;  that 
she  had  often  as  she  passed  Bethlem  thought  it 
likely,  '  here  it  may  be  my  fate  to  end  my  days  ;  '  con 
scious  of  a  certain  flightiness  in  her  poor  head,  often 
times.  .  .  . 

"  If  my  father,  an  old  servant-maid,  and  I  can't 
live.  ...  on  ^130  or  ^120  a  year,  we  ought  to  burn  by 
slow  fires. 

"  The  lady  at  this  madhouse  assures  me  that  I  may 
dismiss  immediately  both  doctor  and  apothecary, 
retaining ....  a  composing  draught.  Of  all  the  people 
I  ever  saw  in  the  world,  my  poor  sister  was  most  and 
thoroughly  devoid  of  the  least  tincture  of  selfishness. 

"  Yours, 

"  C.  LAMB."  * 

Thus  the  patient  soul  tells  his  own  story  of  this  sad 
time.  Brave,  cheerful,  and  trusting  as  he  was,  that 
wonderful  uplifting  of  spirit  under  such  trials  was 
indeed  God's  very  mercy. 

Coleridge  wrote  often,  describing  wife,  child,  and 
home,  and  often  invited  Lamb  to  visit  him.  But  one 
can  see  it  was  no  time  for  taking  even  a  much-needed 
holiday. 

Coleridge,  with  his  poetic  temperament,  was  always 
*  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 


94      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDCE. 

subject  to  great  fluctuations  of  spirits,  and  was  ever 
hovering  between  the  depths  of  despair  and  the  heights 
of  ecstasy.  With  more  of  seeming  happiness  in  his 
lot  than  Lamb,  he  was  less  cheerful ;  he  was  cursed 
with  the  restless  longings  of  poet  and  thinker,  and 
harassed  for  means  to  supply  his  family's  needs.  In 
writing  to  Lamb,  he  poured  out  much  of  his  discourage 
ment  and  restlessness. 

After  receiving  several  depressing  letters,  Lamb 
wrote : 

"  DEAR  COLERIDGE, — I  feel  myself  much  better  for 
that  spirit  of  confidence  and  friendship  which  dictated 
your  last  letter.  May  your  soul  find  peace  at  last  in 
your  cottage-life  !  I  only  wish  you  were  but  settled. 
I  read  your  letters  with  my  sister,  and  they  gave  us 
both  abundance  of  delight.  Especially  they  please  us 
when  you  talk  in  a  religious  strain  ;  not  but  we  are 
occasionally  offended  with  a  certain  freedom  of  expres 
sion,  a  certain  air  of  mysticism,  more  consonant  with 
the  conceits  of  pagan  philosophy  than  with  the  humility 
of  genuine  piety.  ...  In  your  last  letter  you  say  :  *  It  is 
by  the  press  that  God  hath  given  spirits,  both  evil  and 
good  (I  suppose  you  mean  simply  bad  men  and  good 
men),  a  portion,  as  it  were,  of  His  Omnipresence.' 
Now,  high  as  the  human  intellect,  comparatively,  will 
soar;  and  wide  as  its  influence,  malign  or  salutary,  can 
extend,  is  there  not,  Coleridge,  a  distance  between  the 
Divine  Mind  and  it  which  makes  such  language  blas 
phemy  ? .  .  .  .  God,  in  the  New  Testament  (our  best 
guide),  is  represented  to  us  in  the  kind,  condescending, 
amiable,  familiar  light  of  a  parent ;  and  in  my  poor 
mind,  'tis  best  for  us  to  consider  Him  as  our  Heavenly 


A  TRAGEDY.  95 

Father,  and  our  best  Friend,  without  indulging  too  bold 
conceptions  of  His  nature, 

«C.  LAMB."* 

*"  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

NEW    SCENES    AND   FRIENDS. 

And  now,  beloved  Stowey  !  I  behold 

Thy  church  tower,  and,  methinks,  the  four  huge  elms, 

Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend ; 

And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 

Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe 

And  my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace  !     With  light 

And  quickened  footsteps  thitherward  I  tend, 

Remembering  thee,  O  green  and  silent  dell  I 

And  grateful,  that  by  Nature's  quietness 

And  solitary  musings,  all  my  heart 

Is  softened,  and  made  worthy  to  indulge 

Love,  and  the  thoughts  that  yearn  for  humankind. 

COLERIDGE. 

WHILE  Lamb  was  patiently  plodding  on  day  by  day 
at  India  House,  and  spending  his  evenings  playing 
cribbage  with  his  helpless  father  at  Pentonville, 
Coleridge's  life  was  widening  into  new  interests  and 
pleasures. 

Coleridge  had  sheltered  himself  in  the  little  dell 
among  the  woods  where  Stowey  lies,  like  a  well-filled 
partridge's  nest,  at  the  foot  of  Quantock  hills.  The 
hills  rise  in  rose  and  purple  splendor  above  the  great 
elms  and  the  dark  yews  of  the  vale,  and  brood 
protectingly  over  the  little  hamlet  with  its  gray-stone 
cottages  facing  the  tiny,  purling  stream.  Quite  near 
Coleridge's  little  cottage  was  the  large,  old-fashioned, 
stone  mansion  of  his  friend  Thomas  Poole.  The 


NEW  SCENES  AND  FRIENDS.  97 

pleasant  gardens,  filled  with  old-fashioned  larkspurs, 
pinks,  and  nasturtium,  lit  the  front  with  friendly 
cheerfulness,  while,  behind,  the  stable-yard  sloped  to 
the  fine  green  meadows.  Soon  after  he  had  settled 
here,  Wordsworth  came  to  visit  him,  and  being  also 
charmed  with  the  beauty  of  the  heather-covered 
Quantock  hills,  decided  to  settle  at  Alfoxden — which 
was  a  bower  of  beauty — upon  the  slope  and  near  his 
new  friend  Coleridge.  Amid  these  hills  and  vales  the 
brother  poets  strolled  from  morning  until  night. 

The  bond  of  genius  is  often  stronger  than  the  ties  of 
blood.  And  as  the  electric  spark  of  genius  finds  its 
poles  in  hearts  and  leaps  out  in  sudden  flashes  of  joy 
at  the  touch  of  a  comprehending  spirit,  they  looked 
into  each  other's  souls  and  knew  they  were  akin. 

Wordsworth's  early  poems  had  met  with  so  little 
recognition,  that  Coleridge's  delight  in  them  touched 
his  heart.  The  "Monthly  Review"  of  1793  had 
sneered  at  "  the  eternal  changes  rung  upon  upland, 
lowland,  budding  forests,  and  snowy  clouds." 

"  Are  we  forever  to  be  inundated  with  floods  of 
maudlin  trash  called  poetry  of  Nature  ?  "  the  sneering 
critics  had  asked. 

But  the  young  W7ordsworth  had  gone  on  writing  his 
lays  in  his  own  style.  He  had  been  chary  of  printing, 
and  would  have  been  crippled  in  means  had  not  his 
friend  Calvert  left  him  a  legacy  of  ^"900,  upon  which 
he  and  his  sister  Dorothy  contrived  to  live. 

Coleridge's  little  volume,  published  by  Joseph  Cottle, 
had  attracted  some  attention,  and  rather  more  favor- 
.  able  criticism  than  Wordsworth's. 

Again  and  again  have  the  critics  threshed  down  the 
grain  striving  to  ripen,  and  needing  but  the  sun  of 

7 


98         THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

human  favor,  only  to  turn  at  last  with  the  popular 
voice  and  help  gather  in  the  harvest.  Milton,  Burns, 
Goldsmith,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Keats,  Lanier, 
suffered  poverty  and  scorn.  Their  poems,  that  did 
not  win  their  bread,  have  since  become  household 
words.  After  their  death  they  are  gods,  and  their 
monuments  are  placed  in  the  world's  fane,  West 
minster  Abbey,  whilst  a  tithe  of  the  sum  so  expended 
and  the  fame  so  granted  would  have  warmed  their 
cold  firesides,  and  filled  their  tables  with  bread  and 
their  hearts  with  thankfulness  and  hope. 

Are  we  so  blind  that  we  cannot  see  genius  until  a 
half-century  has  gathered  evidence  that  this  man  is  a 
poet  ?  Or  is  it  because  men  fear  to  trust  their  own 
ideas  of  the  true  and  beautiful,  that  they  must  first 
criticise  and  anatomize  before  they  dare  admit  talent  ? 
Is  it  not  so  with  the  other  arts  of  painting  and  music  ? 
Beethoven's  name  was  almost  forgotten  during  his 
later  years,  and  Mozart  but  gained  success  by  dying 
ere  his  manhood  ripened.  Why  did  Millet  and  Dela 
croix  and  the  other  artists  of  that  school  struggle 
through  their  lives  with  poverty  to  rise,  too  late,  to 
pinnacles  of  fame  ? 

Is  any  fate  so  sad  as  fame,  love,  appreciation,  which 
have  come  too  late  ?  Too  late  !  when  the  ears  that  longed 
for  praise,  even  for  toleration,  are  cold  in  death ;  when 
sympathy  and  admiration  only  awake  to  strew  flowers 
on  a  tomb  !  Talent  struggles  out  because  you  fear 
to  stretch  your  hands  in  welcome  ;  yet  you  help  and 
encourage  the  very  bubbles  that  float  on  the  surface  of 
stagnant  pools — the  novels  of  flimsy  sentiment  and 
false  life.  Let  me  plead  with  critics  for  a  little  more 
patience  and  hopefulness  towards  beginners,  and  with 


NE  W  SCENES  AND  FRIENDS.  99 

readers  for  a  little  more  confidence.  The  help  thus 
given  would  be  worth  an  occasional  mistake.  Make 
way  for  all  that  is  brave  and  pure  and  true  in  art  and 
life,  in  heart  and  soul;  and  thus  help  "  Ring  out  the 
false,  ring  in  the  true."  So  shall  God's  Truth  come 
uppermost  in  the  long  roll  of  the  centuries  that  shall 
carry  down  the  false  and  elevate  the  true. 

Back  to  our  poets,  whose  fortunes  have  elicited  this 
monologue,  and  tempted  this  lifting  of  the  veil. 

Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  grew  into  such  close 
sympathy  whilst  browsing  in  each  other's  fields  that 
each  needed  the  other's  encouragement  to  spur  him  on. 
Wordsworth  delighted  in  the  brilliant  flow  of  humor, 
as  well  as  the  deep  thought  and  erudition  of  Coleridge. 
Like  Coleridge  and  Southey,  Wordsworth  had  sought 
truth  in  philosophy  and  metaphysics,  being  wearied 
of  the  narrow  limits  of  the  Church,  which  seemed  to 
place  form  above  principle.  After  shaking  off  college 
fetters,  he  had  wandered  amid  the  wild  glens  of  Wales 
with  his  sister.  They  had  later  sought  the  beauties  of 
the  Continent,  and  were  caught  while  in  France  in  the 
meshes  of  the  "  Reign  of  Terror."  He,  too,  had 
imbibed  the  spirit  of  "  Liberty  "  from  those  whose  later 
acts  so  belied  her  name. 

But  the  thieving,  selfish  spirit  of  faction  riding  down 
faction,  and  their  horrid  thirst  for  blood,  disgusted 
him;  and,  like  Beethoven  and  others,  who  had  adored 
the  bravery  of  the  young  Napoleon,  he  learned  to  loathe 
the  tyrant  who  seized  a  throne  under  cover  of  the  name 
of  Protector  and  Consul. 

In   Bristol,  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  Southey  and 


TOO      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Poole,  had  debated  such  questions.  And  now  upon  the 
breezy  Quantock  hills,  and  along  the  shady  sequestered 
vales,  they  continued  their  long  arguments,  quoted  their 
poetry,  and  discussed  the  sphere  and  scope  of  the  muse. 

Wordsworth's  home  at  Alfoxden  was  one  of  the  love 
liest  nooks  in  England,  surrounded  by  noble  trees,  with 
the  blue  hills  rising,  range  on  range,  around,  and  the 
green  meadows  winding  down  to  the  blue  waters  of 
Bristol  Channel,  scarcely  a  mile  away.  The  loftiest 
hollies  of  England  fringe  these  Quantock  hills,  amid 
their  environment  of  splendid  oaks.  It  was  a  most 
appropriate  setting  for  the  poetic  jewels  of  thought  and 
inspiration. 

Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  roamed  the  hills  and 
haunted  the  dells  and  woodlands  along  the  trickling 
streams,  until  the  simple  rustics  grew  afraid  of  the 
solemn  townsmen  who  went  peering  into  rocks  and 
streams,  arguing,  talking,  quoting,  declaiming.  To  the 
astonished  innocents  who  followed  them  at  a  safe  dis 
tance,  and  shook  their  heads  at  the  droning  monologues 
of  the  tall  man  with  the  green  glasses,  they  seemed  be 
witched.  The  observers  "  knowed  no  good  would 
come  of  they  'uns  as  allus  had  their  'eds  in  clouds." 
"They  made  signs  with  they  arms,  and  talked  treason," 
said  others.  And  at  the  village  pot-house,  the  rustics 
whispered  over  the  strange  wanderings  of  the  myste 
rious  roamers  who  seemed  "  allus  a-lookin'  and  a-look- 
in'  for  sommat." 

"  Depend  upon  it  they're  spies  of  they  French  cut 
throats.  I  heerd  them  talking  of  Bonypart  and  Robys- 
pear,"  said  Hodge. 

A  county  magnate,  hearing  the  talk  of  the  rustics  and 
his  lackeys,  actually  notified  some  London  officials  of 


NEW  SCENES  AND  FRIENDS.  101 

the  dangerous  characters  loitering  in  the  neighborhood. 
A  spy  was  sent  to  watch  the  suspected  men,  who  were 
entirely  unconscious  of  criticism  or  danger,  and  dogged 
them  until,  finally,  Coleridge,  noticing  a  suspicious  look 
ing  person  following  their  daily  rambles,  agreed  with 
Wordsworth  to  lead  the  man  a  dance. 

To  the  top  of  Eagle's  Crag  and  down  the  roughest 
glens  they  clambered,  the  weary  spy  clumsily  follow 
ing.  Back  and  forth  wandered  the  poets,  declaiming 
in  mock  heroics,  and  surreptitiously  watching  their  man 
until  he  gave  up  the  chase  and  reported  that  "  those 
fellows  were  only  innocents  talking  poetry.  Their 
*  Spy  Nosey,'  which  Hodge  heard  so  much  about,  was 
only  one  of  the  book  people  they  was  discussin'." 

The  baronet  was  still  unconvinced,  but  after  some 
further  watching,  the  innkeeper  also  testified  that 
"  they  fellows  was  naught  but  poets  a-writing  up  the 
Quantock  hills."  * 

How  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  roared  with  delight 
over  the  joke,  when  they  finally  discovered  that  they 
were  "  suspects  ; "  and  with  what  fiery  and  frantic 
declamations  they  astonished  any  natives  they  chanced 
to  meet  on  hill  or  glen  ! 

After  that  episode  they  delighted  in  appearing  as 
eccentric  as  possible.  Small  wonder  that  the  lank, 
dark  man  with  green  glasses,  and  the  wild-eyed,  sham 
bling  fellow  beside  him,  with  shaggy  black  mane  and 
endless  torrent  of  words,  were  an  incomprehensible 
pair.  It  was  rather  hard  on  pretty  bright  Dorothy  and 
the  more  demure  Sarah  to  be  considered  the  improper 
allies  of  these  dangerous  creatures.  They  did  not 
enjoy  the  joke  quite  as  much  as  their  lords. 
*  "  Biographia  Literaria," 


102       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge  wrote  to  Lamb  :  "  The 
giant  Wordsworth — God  love  him  !  When  I  speak  in 
the  terms  of  admiration  due  to  his  intellect,  I  fear  lest 
these  terms  should  keep  out  of  sight  the  amiableness 
of  his  manners.  He  has  written  near  1,200  lines  of  blank 
verse,  superior,  I  hesitate  not  to  aver,  to  anything  in 
our  language  which  any  way  resembles  it.  As  to  Dorothy, 
she  is  a  woman  indeed  in  mind  and  heart.  Her  person, 
is  such,  that  if  you  expected  to  see  an  ordinary  woman 
you  would  think  her  pretty."  :  "  She  has  brilliant, 
dark  eyes  flashing  with  quick  intelligence  and  sudden 
tenderness  ;  glossy,  dark,  waving  hair,  and  an  everchang- 
ing  color  flitting  on  her  nut-brown  face,"  he  wrote  later. 

Cottle,  Poole,  and  the  Wedgwoods  often  joined  the 
poets  at  home  and  in  their  expeditions.  Dorothy  was 
continually  with  them,  but  Coleridge's  wife  was  often 
kept  at  home  by  her  child  and  home  duties.  She  used 
to  look  wistfully  after  the  merry  party  as  they  started 
for  a  day's  frolic,  with  lunch  baskets  and  ale  bottles. 
She  bravely  fought  down  the  envious  demon  that  came 
whispering :  "  Why  cannot  you  share  your  husband's 
pleasures  and  holidays  as  well  as  Dorothy?"  But  as 
their  expeditions  sometimes  lasted  several  days,  and 
became  more  frequent,  the  imp's  suggestions  gathered 
weight  and  persistence. 

"Not  again  to-day?"  she  said,  after  Coleridge  had 
been  spending  a  week  with  the  Wordsworths.  "  Not 
to-day,  Esteecee  ;  you  have  scarcely  been  with  your 
wife  this  fortnight."  And  the  tears,  so  often  repressed, 
rolled  down  the  flushed  face  that  looked  so  pleadingly 
into  his. 

Coleridge  frowned.  "  Would  you  keep  me  tied  here 
*  "  Life  of  Coleridge."— HALL  CAINE. 


NEW  SCENES  AND  FRIENDS.  103 

when  Wordsworth  and  I  are  planning  such  beautiful 
verses  ?  You  know  I  must  have  inspiration,  and  I  am 
working  for  you  and  the  little  birdie,  my  love." 

"  But  it  is  every  day  and  always,  whilst  I  must  sit  at 
home  and  mend  the  socks  and  tend  the  fire,"  she  sobbed. 

"  My  dearest,  come  with  us  ;  we  men  who  live  by 
our  wits  must  keep  up  the  fuel  for  our  fires,  and  fires 
must  burn  or  there  will  be  nothing  to  put  in  the  pot. 
Come  with  us,  and  you  and  Dorothy  can  bring  your 
sewing  for  a  quiet  chat  whilst  we  are  climbing." 

"  Little  Hartley  is  not  well  enough  for  me  to  leave, 
you  know,  Esteecee  ;  and  Dorothy  has  pleasanter  com 
pany  than  mine  in  those  rambles,"  she  said,  with  a  sus 
picious  ring  in  her  voice,  and  a  flush  over  neck  and 
brow.  There  !  the  secret  was  out !  Coleridge  looked 
angrily  at  the  clouded  brow,  and  within  him  also  rose 
a  demon  in  resentment.  But  he  checked  it,  and  taking 
his  wife  into  his  arms,  settled  into  the  warm  chimney 
corner  for  a  long  cosy  chat  such  as  they  both  loved. 
Sunshine  soon  returned,  and  they  were  gabbling  mer 
rily,  when  Lloyd  came  in  from  his  little  study,  beyond, 
and  joined  them.  Sarah  sighed  as  she  sank  into  the 
cushioned  chair  by  Esteecee,  and  took  up  her  sewing. 
It  seemed  hard  that  in  these  days  of  ceaseless  rambles, 
visitors,  and  intimates,  they  could  rarely  have  an  even 
ing  to  themselves  as  in  the  little  nest  at  Clevedon. 
Lloyd  was  always  here,  and  Mr.  Poole,  or  Mr.  Cottle, 
or  the  Wedgwoods,  or  Southey,  who  had  now  returned 
from  Spain,  and  was  settled  at  Bristol.  So  poor  Sarah 
again  saw  Coleridge  prepare  for  his  day's  wanderings. 
She  hid  her  face  in  little  Hartley's  soft  curls,  and  ere 
long  the  baby  caresses  had  soothed  away  the  disap 
pointed  tears  that  came  so  readily  in  these  days. 


104       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Far  up  the  purple  slope,  above  the  hollies  and  the 
oaks  of  the  glens,  the  poets  again  met  to  continue  their 
discussion  upon  the  requisite  qualities  of  true  poetry. 

"  Poetry  must,  of  course,  have  imagination,"  said 
Wordsworth  ;  "  fine  fancies  emanate  from  such  scenes 
as  these.  But  more  necessary  still  is  the  soul's  utter 
ance,  suggested  by  the  glories  of  God's  beautiful  crea 
tion,  and  whispered  into  the  listening  ear." 

"  Whispered  by  what  ?  I  do  not  quite  understand 
your  drift,"  said  Coleridge. 

"  I  only  use  the  word  '  whispered  '  for  want  of  a  better 
term  for  the  still,  small  voice  within.  In  all  beautiful 
scenes ;  in  the  heart  of  Nature,  amid  her  mighty 
forests  or  her  tiny  trickling  streams,  there  is  a  voice, 
whether  without  or  within,  I  know  not.  Listen  for  it 
in  all  sweet  solitudes,  and  the  attentive  soul  will  always 
hear  God's  message  of  love  and  wisdom." 

"  But  this  is  very  Quakerism,  the  key-note  of  George 
Fox's  teachings,"  said  Coleridge. 

"  Call  it  Quakerism  or  inspiration,  or  the  Divine 
Spirit,  I  know  not,  nor  do  1  care,  since  I  can  hear  and 
follow  that  inner  voice,"  said  Wordsworth,  pacing 
rapidly  along. 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  you  as  to  the  imagination  and 
the  inspiration,  which  are  the  true  soul  of  poetry.  But 
to  my  mind  they  are  the  workings  of  the  poet's  own 
thought  and  fancy,  from  within,  not  from  without," 
answered  Coleridge.  "  I  build  my  poems  from  my 
own  fancies,  the  response  of  my  brain  to  the  external 
world." 

"  Perhaps  we  mean  the  same  thing,"  said  Wordsworth, 
with  one  of  his  grave  smiles.  "  I  write  from  the  inner 
consciousness  of  God's  meaning  in  His  creations,  and 


NEW  SCENES  AND  FRIENDS.  105 

you  from  their  suggestions  to  your  brain.  I  believe  in 
following  Nature  closely,  and  in  depicting  rustic  scenes 
and  the  simplicity  of  rustic  life,  as  far  as  possible  using 
their  own  language  and  expressions." 

"  But  you  interpret  their  passions  and  feelings  from 
your  own  experience  and  imagination,"  argued  Cole 
ridge. 

"  Yes ;  as  I  read  them  through  their  acts  and  lives. 
Their  loves  and  hates  and  sufferings  must  have  their 
own  proper  setting  and  language,  which  my  inner  voice 
must  discover." 

"  Well,"  said  Coleridge,  laughing,  "  we  may  differ 
slightly  as  to  our  method  of  writing ;  but  we  certainly 
have  the  same  faith  in  Nature  and  her  inspirations." 

About  this  time,  Wordsworth  wrote  the  poems  giving 
the  key-note  of  his  poetic  faith  : 

"  The  eye  it  cannot  choose  but  see  ; 

We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against  or  with  our  will. 

"  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 

Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress  ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours, 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"  Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 

Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ! " 

And  in  another  poem,  he  says : 

"  Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 


io6      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth 

Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 

Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness.  .  .  . 
Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 

Close  up  those  barren  leaves  ! 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 

That  watches  and  receives." 

It  was  during  these  days  of  constant  intercourse  and 
inspiring  rambles  that  Wordsworth  wrote  the  "  Lyrical 
Ballads,"  and  Coleridge  wrote  his  "  Religious  Musings  " 
and  his  most  beautiful  poem,  "  The  Ancient  Mariner." 
The  weird  fancy  of  the  mysterious  wedding  guest  took 
hold  of  his  imagination  until  he  has  given  us  a  real 
ghost.  But  the  exquisite  expressions  and  thoughts 
here  seem  as  familiar  as  David's  Psalms,  and  almost  as 
dear. 

"  An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high, 
But  oh  !    more  horrible  than  that 
Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye," — 

is  a  picture  to  remember  for  life,  and  the  lovely  bene 
diction  is  a  watchword  to  our  hearts : 

"  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 

All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God,  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LONELY  DAYS  AND  FRIENDLY  LETTERS. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers. 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours, 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away — a  sordid  boon. 

The  sea  that  bares  its  bosom  to  the  moon, 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  upgathered  now,  like  sleeping  flowers.  ,  .  . 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune.  .  ,  . 

WORDSWORTH. 

This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theaters,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky  .... 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will. 

WORDSWORTH. 

WHILST  the  new  friends  were  gaining  help  and 
inspiration  from  one  another,  the  old  friend  was  still 
plodding  at  India  House,  spending  his  leisure  time 
with  his  poor  father,  and  in  constant  visits  to  the 
sister  who  was  also  patiently  enduring  her  incarcer 
ation  in  the  asylum. 

Lamb's  letters  to  Coleridge  through  all  this  dreary 
time  breathe  almost  a  spirit  of  exultation,  in  the  beau 
tiful  patience  and  resignation  they  show.  To  a  sensi 
tive  soul  relying  on  God's  grace,  such  states  of  mind 
often  accompany  a  great  sorrow.  The  sense  of  the 


io8       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Divine  presence  and  help,  as  Lamb  said,  "  gives  a  feel 
ing  of  brotherhood  to  the  man  of  sorrows."  He  could 
hear  without  envy  of  the  new  friendship,  and  Coleridge's 
letters  came  like  a  sweet  breath  of  the  free  country  to 
the  smoky,  dusty  London. 

He  rejoiced  in  his  friend's  poetry,  wept  over  the 
"Ancient  Mariner,"  and  treasured  the  "  Religious  Mus 
ings  "  next  to  his  Bible.  He  was  the  admirer,  critic,  and 
"  public  opinion  "  of  everything  Coleridge  wrote  ;  and 
many  suggestions  of  his  improved  and  polished  those 
poems  before  they  were  crystallized  into  print  for  the 
world. 

Coleridge,  in  publishing  his  new  poems,  kindly  offered 
to  include  those  of  Lamb  and  Lloyd.  He  wrote  to 
Lamb  :  "  Give  me,  my  friend,  those  poems  you  saved 
from  your  holocaust  and  what  you  have  since  written, 
and  let  them  have  a  being  and  a  place  among  my  brain 
children.  They  are  at  least  first  cousins,  and  it  would 
prevent  loneliness  to  send  them  into  the  world  to 
gether." 

Lamb  was  pleased  at  the  tribute  to  his  unpretend 
ing  work.  The  sonnets  and  poems  were  added  to 
Coleridge's  with  a  dedication  to  his  dearly-loved  sister, 
as  she  must  henceforth  share  in  any  good  thing  that 
should  befall  him.  The  dedication  reads  :  "  The  few 
following  poems,  creations  of  the  Fancy  and  Feeling,  in 
life's  most  vacant  hours,  produced  for  the  most  part 
by  love  in  idleness,  are  with  a  brother's  tenderness  in 
scribed  to  Mary  Anne  Lamb,  the  Author's  best  friend 
and  sister."  * 

He  wrote  to  Coleridge  :  "  With  this  pomp  and  para 
phernalia  of  parting,  I  take  my  leave  of  a  passion 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGKR. 


LONEL  Y  DA  YS  AND  FRIENDL  Y  LE TTERS.     1 09 

which  has  reigned  so  long  within  me.  Thus  with  its 
trappings  of  laureateship  I  fling  it  off,  pleased  and 
satisfied  with  myself  that  the  weakness  troubles  me  no 
longer.  ...  I  am  wedded,  Coleridge,  to  the  fortunes  of 
my  sister  and  my  poor  old  father.  Oh,  my  friend,  I 
think  sometimes,  could  I  recall  the  days  of  the  past, 
which  among  them  would  I  choose  ?  Not  the  'pleasant 
days  of  hope,'  not  those  '  wanderings  with  a  fair-haired 
maid,'  which  I  have  so  often  and  so  feelingly  regretted, 
but  the  days,  Coleridge,  of  a  mother's  fondness  for  her 
schoolboy.  What  would  I  not  give  to  call  her  back  to 
earth  for  one  day — on  my  knees  to  ask  her  pardon  for 
all  of  those  little  asperities  of  temper  which,  from  time  to 
time,  have  given  her  gentle  spirit  pain.  And  the  day,  I 
trust,  will  come.  There  will  be  time  enough  'for  kind 
offices  of  love,'  if  '  Heaven's  eternal  years '  be  ours.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  my  friend,  cultivate  the  filial  feelings  !  And  let 
no  man  think  himself  released  from  the  kind  charities 
of  relationship ;  these  shall  give  him  peace  at  last. 
These  are  the  best  foundation  of  every  species  of 
benevolence.  .  .  .  Send  me  an  account  of  your  health ; 
indeed  I  am  solicitous  about  you. 

"  God  love  you  and  yours, 

"  C.  LAMB."  * 

"Sacrifice  your  little  '  Epitaph  on  an  Infant,'  or  sell  it 
to  a  country  statuary.  Commence  in  this  manner: 
1  Death's  prime  poet-laureate,'  and  let  your  verses  be 
adopted  in  every  village  round  instead  of  those  hitherto 
famous  ones : 

"  '  Affliction  sore  long  time  I  bore  ; 
Physicians  were  in  vain ' .  .  .  . 

"  With  regard  to  my  lines,  *  Laugh  all  that  weep,'  I 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— TALFOURD. 


no       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

would  willingly  sacrifice  them ;  but  my  portion  of  the 
volume  is  so  ridiculously  little,  that,  in  honest  truth,  I 
can't  spare  'em.  .  .  .  Ah,  Coleridge,  think  when  we  writ 
them, — 'twas  two  Christmases  ago,  and  in  that  nice  little 
smoky  room  at  the  Salutation,  which  is  even  now  con 
tinually  presenting  itself  to  my  recollection,  with  all  its 
associated  train  of  pipes,  tobacco,  egg-hot,  welsh-rabbits, 
metaphysics,  and  poetry  !  Are  we  never  to  meet  again  ? 
How  differently  I  am  circumstanced  now !  I  have 
never  met  with  any  one,  never  shall  meet  with  any  one, 
who  could  or  can  compensate  me  for  the  loss  of  your 
society.  ...  I  lack  friends,  I  lack  books  to  supply  their 
absence  ;  but  these  complaints  ill  become  me.  My 
sister  is  quite  well  now,  but  must  not,  I  fear,  come  to 
live  with  us  yet  a  good  while.  .  .  .  One  man  has  pressed 
it  on  to  me  that  she  should  be  in  perpetual  confinement. 
What  has  she  done  to  deserve  this  ? 

"  I  am  starving  at  the  India  House,  near  seven  o'clock, 
without  my  dinner,  and  so  it  has  been,  and  will  be  all 
the  week.  I  get  home  at  night  o'erwearied,  quite 
faint,  and  then  to  cards  with  my  father,  who  will  not 
let  me  enjoy  a  meal  in  peace ;  but  must  conform  to 
my  situation,  and  I  hope  I  am,  for  the  most  part,  not 
unthankful." 

"  I  got  home  at  last,  and  after  repeated  games  at 
cribbage,  have  got  my  father's  leave  to  write  awhile ; 
with  difficulty  got  it,  for  when  I  espostulated  about 
playing  any  more,  he  very  aptly  replied  :  *  If  you  won't 
play  with  me  you  might  as  well  not  come  home  at  all.' 
The  argument  was  unanswerable,  so  I  set  to  work 
again.  .  .  . 

".  .  .  .  When  I  read  the  *  Religious  Musings,'  I  think 
how  poor,  how  unelevated,  unoriginal  my  blank  verse 


L  ON  EL  Y  DA  YS  AND  FRIENDL  Y  LE  TTERS.     1 1 1 

is.  ...  and  I  ask  what  business  they  have  with  yours ; 
but  friendship  covereth  a  multitude  of  defects." 

"  I  have  been  reading  '  The  Task,'  with  fresh  delight. 
I  am  glad  you  love  Cowper.  I  could  forgive  a  man 
for  not  enjoying  Milton,  but  I  would  not  call  that  man 
my  friend  who  should  be  offended  with  the  'divine 
chit-chat  of  Cowper.' 

"  I  have  almost  lost  thy  letters,  Coleridge  ;  I  have 
given  them  to  a  friend  out  of  the  house  to  keep  safe 
from  my  brother  John's  sight,  in  case  he  comes  to  hold 
inquisition  over  our  papers ;  for  much  as  he  dwelt 
upon  your  conversation  whilst  you  were  among  us, 
he  has  not  ceased  to  depreciate  you,  and  cry  you 
down.  You  were  the  cause  of  my  madness,  you  and 
your  damned,  foolish  sensibility,  and  melancholy,  and 
lamented  we  had  ever  met ;  e'en  like  that  father  who, 
when  his  son  went  astray  upon  the  Mount  of  Parnassus, 
is  said  to  have  cursed  '  wit,  poetry,  and  Pope.'  "  * 

Again  he  writes :  "  Ah,  Coleridge  !  I  would  rather 
hear  you  sing  '  Did  a  very  little  Baby/  by  your  family 
fireside,  than  hear  you  repeat  one  of  Bowles's  sweetest 
sonnets  in  your  sweet  manner,  whilst  we  two  were 
indulging  sympathy  by  the  fireside  of  the  *  Saluta 
tion  '.  .  .  .  Not  a  soul  loves  Bowles  here  ;  scarce  one 
has  heard  of  Burns  ;  few  but  laugh  at  me  for  read 
ing  my  Testament.  They  talk  a  language  I  know 
not.  I  conceal  sentiments  that  would  be  a  puzzle 
to  them.  I  can  only  converse  with  you  by  letter  and 
with  the  dead  by  their  books.  My  sister  is  indeed 
all  I  can  wish,  in  a  companion.  But  our  spirits  are 
alike  poorly;  our  reading  and  knowledge  from  the 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — TALFOURD. 


112       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

self-same  source,  our  communication  with  the  scenes 
of  the  world  alike  narrow.  .  .  .  Love  to  Mr?.  Coleridge 
and  little  Hartley,  and  remembrance  to  Lloyd,  if  he  is 
still  with  you." 

At  another  time  he  wrote  :  "  Coleridge,  where  am  I 
to  look  for  friends  t  I  know  not  one  Christian,  not 
one  but  undervalues  Christianity.  What  am  I  to  do  ? 
Wesley  (have  you  read  his  life  ?  was  he  not  an  ele 
vated  character  ?) — Wesley  has  said  :  *  Religion  is  not  a 
solitary  thing.'  Alas  !  it  necessarily  is  so  with  me,  or 
next  to  solitary.  'Tis  true  you  write  to  me  ;  but  cor 
respondence  by  letter  and  personal  intimacy  are  so 
widely  different !  Do  write  to  me  and  do  some  good  to 
my  mind,  already  too  much  warped  and  relaxed  by  the 
world.  Good-night.  God  have  us  all  in  His  holy 
keeping. — C.  L." 

Coleridge  had  written  to  Lamb  of  his  discussions  of 
Hartley  and  Berkeley  with  his  new  friends,  and  Lamb 
replied : 

"  Are  you  yet  a  Berkeleyan  ?  Make  me  one.  I 
rejoice  in  being  speculatively  a  Necessarian.  Would 
to  God  I  were  habitually  a  practical  one  !  Are  you 
finishing  your  *  Evidences  of  Natural  and  Revealed  Re 
ligion  ? '  Or  are  you  doing  anything  towards  it  ?  Make 
to  yourself  other  ten  talents.  .  .  .  Woe  is  me  that  I  am 
constrained  to  dwell  with  Mesheck,  and  to  have  my 
habitation  among  the  tents  of  Kedar.  I  know  I  am 
no  better  than  my  neighbors  ;  but  I  have  a  taste  for 
Religion,  an  occasional  earnest  aspiration  after  per 
fection,  which  they  have  not.  I  gain  nothing  in  being 
with  such  as  myself  ;  we  encourage  one  another  in 
mediocrity.  I  am  always  longing  to  be  with  men  more 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


LONEL  Y  DA  YS  AND  FRIENDL  Y  LETTERS.      1 13 

excellent  than  myself.  ...  I  have  been  reading  Priest 
ley  on  *  Philosophic  Necessity,'  in  the  thought  that  I  en 
joy  a  kind  of  communion  (a  kind  of  friendship  even)  with 
the  great  and  good.  Books  are  to  me  instead  of  friends  ; 
I  wish  they  did  not  resemble  the  latter  in  scarceness."  * 

One  can  fancy  the  cravings  of  the  young  scholar 
amid  the  commonplace  herd  of  fellow-clerks,  who  knew 
and  cared  for  little  besides  ledgers  and  task  work,  and 
the  easiest  way  to  shirk  all  other  responsibilities.  I 
hope  my  readers  will  pardon  me  for  introducing  so 
many  of  Lamb's  letters ;  but  how  better  could  I  give 
a  true  insight  into  heart  and  character  and  surround 
ings,  than  by  this  outpouring  of  his  spirit  to  his  bosom 
friend  ?  Happy  is  the  man  who  has  one  true  heart  into 
which  he  can  unreservedly  pour  his  pent-up  cares  and 
thoughts  !  It  is  a  wondrous  safeguard  against  the 
bitterness,  perhaps  the  unbelief,  that  follow  silent, 
secret  grief. 

As  Coleridge  read  his  friend's  tender  and  touching 
letters  to  his  wife,  she,  too,  learned  to  love  the  gentle 
clerk  who  was  chained  to  his  desk  and  his  family 
troubles.  She  constantly  added  postscripts  to  Cole 
ridge's  replies,  and  her  invitations  to  his  for  the  long- 
desired  visit.  In  September,  1797,  Lamb  made  one 
more  effort  for  a  holiday,  and  gained  it. 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FRIENDS    IN    COUNCIL. 

Well  hast  thou  said  and  holily  dispraised 
These  shapings  of  the  unregenerate  mind — 
Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise  and  break 
On  vain  philosophy's  aye-babbling  spring. 
For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  Him — 
The  Incomprehensible !  save  when  with  awe 
I  praise  Him,  and  with  faith  that  inly  feels, 
Who  with  His  saving  mercies  healed  me, 
A  sinful  and  most  miserable  man  ; 
'  Wildered  and  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 
Peace,  and  this  cot,  and  thee,  heart-honored  maid. 

COLERIDGE. 

ONE  day  in  September,  a  slight,  thin-legged  little 
man  in  black  small-clothes  and  leggings,  with  huge 
green  overcoat  nearly  to  his  heels,  mounted  the  Bristol 
coach  at  the  "  White  Swan  Inn."  He  took  an  outside 
seat  near  the  driver,  and  from  the  innumerable  ques 
tions  and  stammering  jokes  and  puns,  as  the  coach 
spun  down  the  Strand  and  rattled  through  the  streets 
to  the  broad  highway,  one  could  recognize  Charles 
Lamb.  Away  they  sped  over  the  shady  roads,  rattling 
through  the  towns  of  Berkshire  and  over  the  meadows 
of  Wiltshire  to  Bath,  leaving  the  well-stuffed  mail-bags 
at  the  inns  by  the  roadside,  amid  the  din  of  clattering 
hoof  and  the  strident  horns,  and  the  joking  and  swear 
ing  and  drinking  of  guards,  lackeys,  drivers,  and  the 


FRIENDS  IN  COUNCIL.  115 

ever-thirsty  passengers,  who  must  stretch  their  legs, 
and  have  a  pot  of  beer  or  ale  at  each  stop.  Dinners  at 
the  quaint  stone  inns  with  their  huge  fire-places  and 
savory  roasts  on  the  spit ;  and  a  night's  lodging  at 
another  town  seven  hours  further  on,  where  the  lights 
of  the  inn  stream  out  over  the  reeking  horses  and 
bustling  servitors. 

The  meadows  swell  to  hillocks  as  they  spin  through 
Gloucester  the  next  day  ;  and  beyond  lie  the  long  blue 
lines  of  the  Quantock  hills  in  the  far  distance,  and  then 
comes  Bridgewater,  where  Coleridge  meets  him  with  that 
greeting  so  sweet  to  loving  hearts  after  long  parting,, 
How  pleasant  for  each  to  look  into  the  other's  eyes 
and  read  the  tenderness  that  men's  tongues  are  too 
stiff  to  utter  to  another  man  ! 

As  they  walked  to  Stowey,  along  the  pleasant 
country  road,  Lamb  looked  with  delight  at  the  scenes 
so  new  to  his  cockney  eyes.  "  Ah,  Esteecee,  how 
quaint  are  these  st-st-st-stone  cottages  lying  along  the 
way,  with  their  b-b-brown  wigs  shading  their  eyes ! 
How  b-beautiful  th-those  ranges  of  hills  with  this  sun 
set  t-turning  them  to  mountains  of  limpid  g-g-gold." 

And  the  friends  basked  in  the  golden  light  and  quiet 
beauty  as  they  walked  arm-in-arm  along  the  shady 
lanes  between  the  hawthorn  hedges.  Where  the  cot 
tages  clustered  along  a  shady  road,  with  a  tiny  stream 
flowing  along  the  center,  Coleridge  pointed  beyond  to 
one  peeping  from  its  overshadowing  trees,  as  from  it 
toddled  a  wee  chubby  baby  to  welcome  "  daddy  "  home. 
Sarah  came  out  with  warmest  greetings  to  the  long- 
expected  friend. 

When  Mr.  Poole  came,  during  the  evening,  Lamb 
was  in  his  richest  vein  of  fun  and  humor  \  and  with 


n6       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Lloyd  the  friends  found  topics  to  interest  them  until 
midnight. 

For  days  and  weeks  Joseph  Cottle  and  Poole  came 
almost  daily  to  enjoy  the  bright-eyed  cockney  who  was 
so  keenly  alive  to  the  charms  of  their  pretty  country. 

"  Nay,  t-talk  not  of  your  hills  and  dales,"  Lamb 
would  say,  with  his  inimitable  stutter  ;  "  g-give  me  this 
for  a  holiday,  b-but  for  a  c-constancy  the  streets  of 
London,  with  their  smoking  lamps,  the  shops,  the 
t-tempting  bookstalls,  and  b-bustling  coaches  are  best 
of  all  for  me.  M-m-man  made  the  town  ;  but  G-G-God 
found  it  g-g-good." 

The  serious,  sedate  Wordsworth  was  longer  in  be 
coming  acquainted  with  the  voluble  stammerer.  He 
looked  askance  at  the  ceaseless  flow  of  puns  and 
witticisms ;  and  Lamb,  feeling  the  magnetic  current 
checked,  said,  after  their  first  evening  together  :  "  C-C- 
Coleridge,  your  g-g-giant  is  on  too  high  a  pedestal  for 
such  p-pygmies  as  I.  Redoes  not  know  myg-g-genus. 
He  thinks  my  W-Words-worth  n-n-nothing."  But  in  the 
recitations  and  poets'  talk  of  later  days  the  "  giant " 
found  a  reverent  listener,  and  they  became  warm  friends 
ere  the  visit  drew  to  a  close. 

Dorothy  Wordsworth,  who  had  often  heard  from 
Sarah  Coleridge  the  story  of  Lamb's  devotion  to  his 
sister,  took  him  into  her  heart  at  once  ;  and  many  long 
talks  they  had  of  Mary's  condition  and  Charles's  hopes 
and  plans  for  the  future. 

"  She  is  so  serene  and  calm,"  he  said,  "  you  would 
w-wonder  at  the  strong  spirit  that  without  the  least  f-for- 
getfulness  has  so  accepted  the  m-m-miserable  accident, 
as  being  an  unconscious  instrument  in  God's  hands. 
She  has  had  but  one  r-r-return  of  the  terrible  mania  since 


FRIENDS  IN  CO  UNCIL.  1 1 7 

that  d-day,  and  then  she  lived  over  in  frightful  v-v-v-vivid- 
ness  those  awful  scenes,"  he  said,  shuddering  and 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  "  She  is  now  in 
p-pleasant  quarters  with  a  family  who  k-keep  careful 
watch  over  her  symptoms  ;  and  she  is  very  s-sunny  and 
happy  keeping  her  little  establishment  in  order.  Sh-she 
is  her  own  cook,  and  every  Sunday  she  has  a  fine  pud 
ding  for  me  after  our  walks  in  the  fields." 

"  How  lonely  you  must  be  without  her  at  home," 
sighed  the  sympathetic  Dorothy ;  "  you  two  seem  as 
congenial  as  brother  and  I." 

"  Your  unanimity  of  thought  and  p-purpose  constantly 
r-r-remind  me  of  my  home  life  with  Mary,"  said  Charles, 
with  one  of  his  beaming  smiles.  "  God  grant  I  may 
have  the  comfort  of  her  d-d-dear  presence  soon  ;  but  I 
feel  it  would  as  yet  be  bad  for  my  f-father  ;  he  needs 
m-much  attention,  and  his  irritability  might  unnerve 
her,  and  her  p-presence  might  arouse  d-d-dead  mem 
ories  with  him." 

As  they  rambled  amid  woodlands  and  hills  these 
talks  drew  the  friends  in  closer  sympathy,  and  all  Cole 
ridge's  friends  learned  to  love  Charles  Lamb  as  he 
deserved. 

They  must  show  him  the  beauties  of  the  Quantock 
hills,  and  Wordsworth  was  the  pilot.  Coleridge,  having 
sprained  his  ankle  the  day  after  Lamb's  arrival,  was 
unable  to  accompany  them  in  the  first  rambles. 

During  their  absence  Coleridge  wrote  a  poem  to  his 
friend  Lamb,  called  "  My  Lime  Tree  Bower,"  in  which 
he  bemoans  his  imprisonment  and  absence  from  their 
tramps. 

"  My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !  for  thou  hast  pined 
And  hungered  after  nature  many  a  year 


n8       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

In  the  great  city  pent,  winning  thy  way 

With  sad,  yet  patient  zeal,  through  evil  and  pain 

And  strange  calamity !  Ah  !  slowly  sink 

Behind  the  western  ridge,  thou  glorious  sun  ! 

Shine  in  the  slant  beams  of  the  sinking  orb, 

Ye  purple  heath  flowers  !  richlier  burn,  ye  clouds  ! 

And  kindle,  thou  blue  ocean  !     So  my  friend, 

Struck  with  deep  joy,  may  stand,  as  I  have  stood, 

Silent  with  swimming  sense.  .  .  .  gazing  till  all  doth  seem 

Less  gross  than  bodily ;  and  of  such  hues 

As  veil  the  Almighty  Spirit,  when  yet  He  makes 

Spirits  perceive  His  presence." 

Southey,  too,  came  from  Bristol  to  renew  his  friend 
ship  with  Lamb,  but  Lamb  noticed  a  slight  restraint 
between  Coleridge  and  his  old  friend.  They  seemed 
less  intimate  and  less  congenial  than  of  old.  Southey's 
year  in  Spain  had  made  a  break  in  old  ties,  and  the 
friends  were  growing  apart  in  thought  and  spirit. 
Southey  now  disapproved  of  vain  theorizing,  and  the 
mischief  from  setting  up  opinions  against  the  established 
order  of  things.  He  was  also  disgusted  with  French 
politics  and  with  Bonaparte,  whose  ambition  had  over 
balanced  his  patriotism.  He  was  becoming  a  stanch 
Churchman,  and  a  royalist,  since  freedom  seemed  but 
an  excuse  for  violence  and  crime.  Coleridge,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  still  studying  philosophy  and  meta 
physics,  while  settling  into  Unitarianism,  the  Divine 
Spirit  within  having  conquered  many  of  the  old  doubts 
and  atheistic  unbeliefs. 

He  and  Lamb  had  long  discussions  about  the  Arians 
and  Socinians,  about  Necessity  and  Free-will,  as  in 
their  earlier  days.  They  fully  agreed  that  Unitarian- 
ism  is  not  a  belief,  'tis  a  way  of  thinking.  "  I  believe 
in  nature,  and  in  human  nature  as  parts  of  God's  crea- 


FRIENDS  IN  COUNCIL.  1 19 

tion.  Righteousness,  not  dogma,  is  true  religion,  and 
Jesus'  life  is  our  example,  and  His  death  the  crowning 
act  of  that  life,"  said  Coleridge.  "  I  have  come  to  this 
resting-place  after  my  wanderings  among  the  Sophists." 

"  You  have  c-come,  dear  Esteecee,  to  where  I  have 
always  stood,  although  I  c-c-could  not  formulate  the 
b-belief  so  well  as  you.  Christianity  is  Divine  power  in 
our  1-lives  and  souls,  and  over  all  is  G-God,  and  the 
inspired  t-teacher,  Jesus  Christ,"  said  Lamb  reverently. 

"  But  you  both  want  to  go  a  step  further  to  find  the 
real  truth  of  the  Bible,"  said  Southey.  "  I  wandered 
through  the  mazes  of  doubt  and  questioning  as  you 
did,  Coleridge  ;  I  sought  to  reason  out  a  God  ;  but 
I  have  found  it  vain,  hopeless,  to  step  from  the  finite 
to  the  Infinite.  The  only  step  or  bridge  is  faith — the 
voice  within — proclaiming  a  Creator.  And  the  same 
inner  voice  whispers  faith  in  His  revealed  Word — the 
Bible  ;  and  the  Bible  says  :  *  God  so  loved  the  world 
that  He  gave  His  only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever 
believeth  in  Him  should  not  perish.'  If  I  believe  part 
of  that  Word,  I  must  believe  all.  I  find  that  '  Christ 
died  for  the  ungodly,'  and  '  Being  justified  by  His  blood, 
we  shall  be  saved  from  wrath,  through  Him.' " 

"  You  scorned  this  once,"  said  Coleridge. 

"Yes,  Esteecee,  I  set  my  obstinate  will  against 
Church  and  State,  and  vainly  tried  to  find  a  better 
religion  than  the  doctrines  and  the  interpretations  of 
Mother  Church  ;  but  I  have  humbly  acknowledged  my 
errors,  and,  like  the  prodigal,  I  have  gladly  returned  to 
my  father's  house.  The  Schools  are  utterly  impractical 
and  a  useless  maze  of  reasoning  in  a  circle  that  is  but 
knocking  the  head  against  a  stone  to  gain  a  cracked 
skull." 


120      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  Ah,  Southey  !  that  is  the  secret  of  your  sudden 
return  to  wisdom  and  the  Church  ;  'tis  worldly  wisdom, 
I  fear ;  you  have  thrown  away  all  your  Ideals,  for 
what  ?  To  gain  favor  and  place  ?  "  asked  Coleridge. 

"  No  ;  I  have  curbed  a  turbulent  spirit,  and  harnessed 
it  for  life's  duties,"  replied  Southey,  with  a  hot  flush 
called  up  by  Coleridge's  insinuations.  "  I  have  mouths 
to  feed,  Samuel  Coleridge  ;  I  dare  not  waste  my  time 
in  vain  speculation,  or  in  pursuing  an  ignis  fatu  us  into 
every  ditch  that  lies  before  me  ;  and  the  satisfaction  of 
the  good  old  beliefs  makes  the  surrender  a  delight." 

"  You  are  a  brave,  honest  man,  Southey,  and  I  beg 
to  shake  hands  with  you,"  said  Wordsworth. 

"  And  I  also,"  added  Lamb. 

"  And  I,"  said  Coleridge ;  whereupon  the  friends 
grasped  hands  like  the  knights  of  old  when  starting 
on  some  sacred  quest. 

"  He  who  first  does  his  duty  as  a  man  will  find  his 
faith  rising,  like  the  guiding  star  over  Bethlehem,  to  lead 
him  to  the  truth  in  God  and  Christ,"  said  Wordsworth. 

"  Does  he  not  evolve  his  .faith  from  his  needs  ? " 
asked  Coleridge. 

"  Nay,  the  spirit  from  within  speaks  ;  God's  Spirit 
guides  each  listening  soul  to  His  truth,  and  we  listen 
best  when  sorrow  or  fear  turns  our  gaze  from  outside 
to  within,"  anwered  Wordsworth. 

"  Ah,  f-friends,  if  I  could  but  have  this  blessed  inter 
course  in  my  stupid  London  life,  where  no  one  thinks 
or  c-cares  for  aught  but  the  petty  cares  or  empty  fash 
ion  of  the  day !  "  sighed  Charles  Lamb.  "  A  1-little 
friendly  human  conversation  is  better  than  f-folios  of 
wisdom,"  he  stammered,  looking  lovingly  at  Cole/idge. 
"  I  shall  soon  go  b-back  to  my  desk  among  the  Ishmael- 


IN  COUNCIL.  121 

ites ;  God  g-grant  you  may  drift  d-d-down  our  way, 
some  of  you  poets.  We  need  ideality,  in  London,  to 
l-leaven  the  old  city." 

"  Who  could  write  a  sonnet  in  that  smoke-blackened 
spot  ? — my  wits  grow  beggared  there,"  said  Wordsworth. 

"  Nay,  there  is  much  to  f-feed  a  p-poet's  thought," 
said  Lamb,  always  quick  to  defend  his  beloved  Lon 
don.  "  Did  not  Addison  and  Pope  and  M-Milton  live 
in  London.  We  have  an  excellent  p-poetaster  there  now, 
Samuel  Rogers,  who  wrote  th-those  beautiful  descrip 
tions  of  Continental  Scenes  and  the  '  Pleasures  of 
Memory.'  " 

"  Bah  !  delicate  cameos  for  my  ladyVboudoir  !"  cried 
Wordsworth. 

"  No ;  finely  polished  g-gems,  but  the  real  t-thing," 
stammered  Lamb ;  "  and  there  is  a  new  star  rising,  an 
Edinburgh  scholar  who  is  becoming  vastly  p-popular  in 
London,  one  Campbell,  who  writes  for  some  of  the 
R-R-Reviews." 

"  I  have  not  heard  of  him,"  said  Wordsworth  ;  "but 
city  poems  seem  to  me  too  much  like  highly- wrought 
jeweler's  work :  they  pale  before  God's  sun  and  His 
great  hills  and  shining  lakes." 

"  City  life  may  cramp  a  writer's  fancy ;  but  I  think 
a  poet's  mind  and  heart  are  so  filled  with  the  scenes  of 
his  dreams — his  visions — that  he  might  write  well  even 
in  a  dungeon,"  continued  Southey. 

"  Such  poems  would  surely  take  a  melancholy  tone  ; 
they  would  lack  the  freedom  and  freshness  of  nature," 
said  Wordsworth. 

"  B-b-birds  sing  well  in  cages,  and  m-m-many  a 
prisoned  spirit  beguiles  its  m-melancholy  with  lightest 
fancies,  to  forget  its  en-environments,"  answered  Lamb. 


122       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

The  point  was  carried  ;  for  who  wrote  happier  fancies 
than  this  same  prisoner  of  fate,  whose  life,  ambitions, 
and  hopes  were  fettered  by  chains  of  adamant  ? 

"  Here  we  are,  a  party  of  friends  much  given  to 
scribbling,"  laughed  Southey.  "  We  are  all  beginners 
together  ;  who  knows  but  some  of  us  shall  write  our 
names  beside  those  very  bards  you  mentioned  ?  " 

"  Methinks  our  pens  must  be  tipped  with  gold  to  win 
a  smile  from  Dame  Fortune,"  sighed  Coleridge.  "  Not 
one  of  us  could  earn  the  money  by  our  poems  to  pay 
our  funeral  expenses." 

"Whoever  deserves  Dame  Fortune's  f-favor  shall 
conquer  the  f-fickle  coquette  at  last.  Your  '  Ancient 
Mariner  '  has  b-beauties  that  will  live  th-through  the 
centuries.  I  am  p-prophet  enough  to  read  that  in  your 
f-future,  Esteecee." 

"  I  wish  the  heartless  hussy  would  pay  in  advance," 
said  Coleridge,  "  'tis  most  discouraging  to  wait  upon 
her  pleasure." 

"  And  yet,  'tis  what  we  all  must  do,"  said  Words 
worth  gravely.  The  friends  started  for  a  long  ramble 
among  the  Quantock  hills  to  shake  off  the  cobwebs 
they  had  conjured  up. 

A  few  days  later,  the  Stowey  party  started  for  a 
picnic  at  Alfoxden.  Joseph  Cottle  brought  a  wagon 
from  Bristol  to  carry  some  of  the  party  over ;  others 
preferred  to  walk.  They  prepared  a  great  picnic-basket, 
with  lettuces,  bread,  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  prime 
cognac ;  and  many  jokes  were  cracked  about  the 
expected  feast.  Coleridge's  gray  eyes  were  blazing 
with  fun  and  frolic,  and  Lamb  was  a  very  imp  of  mis 
chief.  Dorothy  Wordsworth  had  been  visiting  the 
Coleridges,  and  was  brilliant  and  saucy,  as  usual. 


FRIENDS  IN  COUNCIL.  123 

The  women  chatted  gayly  and  were  happy,  and  the 
projected  picnic  dinner,  to  be  spread  under  a  shady  oak, 
was  a  fruitful  topic.  They  found  a  mossy  couch  in  a 
sheltered  nook  where  cresses  grew  in  the  brook,  and, 
after  depositing  the  precious  basket,  the  men  proceeded 
to  unhitch  the  horse,  and  wait  comfortably  for  those 
who  were  walking. 

But  the  question  arose :  How  should  they  get  the 
horse's  collar  off  ?  Each  philosopher  in  turn  tried  to 
pull  off  that  collar.  The  horse's  head  had  certainly 
swelled  since  it  was  adjusted,  for  no  head  could  get 
through  that  narrow  opening.  Wordsworth  pulled  and 
tugged,  but  the  head  was  wider  than  the  collar. 
Coleridge,  who  had  groomed  and  saddled  many  a  horse 
whilst  in  his  country's  service,  said  :  "  Let  me  try." 
But  "  the  stubborn  collar  had  shrunk,  that  was  obvious ; 
and  the  beast  was  hydrocephalous."  Several  rustics 
were  attracted  by  the  struggles,  and  a  small  group  was 
forming  around  the  patient  beast,  who  must  have  longed 
to  speak. 

"  Hi  !  "  one  wise  native  finally  said,  "  hi !  muster, 
lemme  turn  it  roond  and  it  wull  coom  roight." 

With  a  good  laugh  over  their  helplessness,  agreeing 
not  to  divulge  their  joke  upon  themselves,  they  turned 
their  attention  to  the  lunch  basket,  but  behold  !  some 
of  their  audience  had  stolen  their  cold  beef  and  cheese, 
and  nothing  remained  but  the  loaf  and  lettuces  ! 

"At  least  we  shall  have  something  to  drown  our  sor 
row  in,"  said  Coleridge,  diving  after  the  brandy  bottle. 

Alas  !  it  slipped  through  his  hands  and,  falling  upon  a 
stone,  baptized  mother  earth  with  the  precious  contents. 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  "  said  Coleridge,  looking  at  their  rueful 
faces,  "  what  a  waste  !  " 


124      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMS  AAfD  COLERIDGE. 

"  It  shall  be  our  li-li-libation  to  propitiate  the 
m-muses,"  laughed  Lamb. 

"  See  how  a  planet  shines  when  the  moon  is  eclipsed," 
said  Dorothy,  holding  up  a  bottle  of  ale  she  had  pro 
vided  for  Sarah  and  herself.  "  You  men  would  not 
have  looked  at  this  in  the  presence  of  the  cognac,  but 
now  it  seems  a  treasure." 

So  the  feast  of  bread  and  lettuces,  with  foaming  ale, 
and  sparkling  water  from  the  brook,  was  as  merry  as 
a  Lord  Mayor's  dinner.  Joseph  Cottle*  often  told  the 
story  of  this  day  as  did  the  others  ;  for  it  seemed  too 
good  to  keep  to  themselves. 

Thus,  with  pleasant  rambles  and  picnics,  with 
friendly  chat  and  pipes,  the  days  sped  by,  and  Lamb 
was  forced  to  say  farewell.  He  sighed  to  leave  the 
pleasant  home  and  the  "  young  philosopher,  Hartley." 
The  little  one  had  been  an  endless  delight  to  the  young 
fellow  who,  as  yet,  had  seen  nothing  of  babyhood. 

Before  leaving,  he  said,  with  his  stuttering  earnest 
ness  :  "  Coleridge,  sh-shake  off  your  melancholy  spells, 
they  are  but  constitutional.  With  a  wise,  tender 
w-wife  and  sweet  toddling  baby,  what  more  could  a  mor 
tal  ask  of  the  g-gods  ?  If  the  purse  be  slender  your 
wants  are  few ;  do  not  1-1-let  this  d-discontent  ruin  your 
happiness  and  your  wife's."  And  the  friends  wrung 
hands  and  parted  ;  Lamb  to  go  back  to  the  smoky  little 
room  at  Pentonville  and  the  dreary  desk  at  India 
House.  He  comforted  himself  with  long  walks  along  his 
beloved  streets,  browsing  upon  the  musty  treasures  on 
the  book-stalls,  and  carrying  home  some  of  the  coveted 
volumes,  as  yellow  and  spotted  as  his  favorite  cheeses. 

*"  Life  of  Coleridge  and  Southey." — COTTLE. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

NEW    SCENES — LETTERS    FROM    THE    OLD    CONTINENT. 

For,  not  a  hidden  path  that  to  the  shades 
Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  forest  leads 
Lurked  undiscovered  by  him  ;  not  a  rill 
There  issues  from  the  fount  of  Hippocrene, 
But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source.  .  .  . 
Piercing  the  long-neglected  holy  cave, 
The  haunt  obscure  of  old  philosophy.  .  .  . 
O  studious  poet,  eloquent  for  truth  ! 
Philosopher,  contemning  wealth  arid  der.tb  ! 

COLERIDGE. 

DESPITE  all  Coleridge's  articles  for  the  London  papers 
and  reviews,  and  the  poems  he  was  continually  writing 
and  sending  to  any  paper  that  would  accept  them,  he 
was  scarcely  able  to  provide  the  necessaries  of  life  for 
his  little  family.  He  was  invited  by  a  congregation  at 
Shrewsbury  to  preach  for  them.  His  ability  and  deep 
scholarship  were  well  known,  and  such  requests  were 
not  infrequent.  William  Hazlitt,  rising  at  daylight  and 
walking  ten  miles  to  hear  him,  thus  describes  the 
young  enthusiast  of  twenty-five,  who,  "  in  his  ordinary 
blue  coat  and  breeches,  with  no  ceremony  of  vest 
ments,"  stood  up  to  preach  : 

"  Mr.  Coleridge  gave  out  the  text :  '  He  departed 
again  into  a  mountain,  Himself  alone?  As  he  gave  out 
this  text  his  voice  rose  like  a  stream  of  rich  distilled 


126      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

perfumes  ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  last  two  words, 
which  he  pronounced  loud,  deep,  and  distinct,  it  seemed 
to  me,  who  was  then  young,  as  if  the  sounds  had  echoed 
from  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart,  and  as  if  that 
prayer  might  have  floated  in  solemn  silence  through 
the  universe.  The  idea  of  St.  John  came  into  my 
mind,  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  who  had  his 
loins  girt  about,  and  whose  food  was  locusts  and  wild 
honey. 

"  The  preacher  then  launched  into  his  subject,  like  an 
eagle  dallying  with  the  wind.  The  sermon  was  upon 
peace  and  war — upon  Church  and  State — not  their 
alliance,  but  their  separation — on  the  spirit  of  the  world 
and  of  Christianity,  not  the  same,  but  as  opposed  to 
one  another.  He  spoke  of  those  who  had  inscribed 
the  Cross  of  Christ  on  banners  dripping  with  human 
gore.  He  made  a  poetical  and  pastoral  excursion  ;  and 
to  show  the  fatal  effects  of  wars,  drew  a  striking  con 
trast  between  the  simple  shepherd-boy  driving  his  team 
afield,  or  sitting  under  the  hawthorn,  piping  to  his 
flock,  *  as  though  he  should  never  be  old,'  and  the  same 
poor  country  lad  crimped,  kidnapped,  brought  into  town, 
made  drunk  at  an  ale-house,  turned  into  a  wretched 
drummer-boy,  with  his  hair  sticking  on  end  with  powder 
and  pomatum,  a  long  cue  at  his  back,  and  tricked  out 
in  the  loathsome  finery  of  the  profession  of  blood. 

"  Such  were  the  notes  our  much-loved  poet  sung, 
and  for  myself  I  could  not  have  been  more  delighted 
if  I  had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Poetry  and 
Philosophy  had  met  together;  Truth  and  Genius  had 
embraced  under  the  eye  and  with  the  sanction  of  Reli 
gion.  This  was  beyond  my  hopes."  * 

*"  Spirit  of  the  Age." — WM.  HAZLITT. 


NE  W  SCENES.  127 

He  was  indeed  a  poet-preacher,  and  was  much  in 
clined  to  accept  the  Unitarian  pulpit  as  his  mission. 

Coleridge  was  restless,  dissatisfied,  and  often  deeply 
melancholy.  Sarah  saw  this  with  grieving  bitterness 
of  spirit ;  and  she  could  not  always  hide  her  disap 
pointment.  The  shadow  of  lost  illusions  is  often 
harder  to  bear  than  graver  trials.  So  the  dissatisfied 
wife  fretted  the  moody  husband,  and  the  few  tears  or 
reproaches  that  would  run  over  from  the  surcharged 
heart  angered  the  sensitive  Coleridge,  already  dis 
couraged  by  his  literary  failures.  The  meager  purse 
made  all  harder  to  bear,  and  there  soon  came  another 
little  mouth  to  feed.  Coleridge  often  fled  from  the 
gloom  at  home  to  Wordsworth's  quiet  dwelling.  The 
poet,  and  Dorothy  with  her  bright  sallies  and  warm 
friendship,  soothed  the  ruffled  philosopher,  who  needed 
constant  sunshine  to  keep  his  plumage  smooth.  This 
intimacy  was  not  at  all  pleasing  to  Sarah,  who  felt  be 
wildered.  She,  the  wife,  could  not  give  her  poet  the 
counsel  and  sympathy  he  needed  ;  and  she,  left  alone 
during  their  long  absences  of  days  and  weeks,  was  pin 
ing  for  appreciation  and  sympathy,  herself.  Words 
worth's  year  at  Alfoxden  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and 
the  owners  refused  a  longer  lease  to  a  tenant  who  was 
so  suspected  and  feared  in  the  neighborhood.  There 
must  be  something  wrong  where  there  was  so  much 
talk,  and  they  could  not  afford  to  bring  odium  upon 
the  place.  So,  in  disgust,  Wordsworth  was  obliged  to 
give  up  the  beautiful  little  home  among  the  Quantock 
hills,  and  he  and  Dorothy  decided  to  take  a  trip  to 
Germany. 

Thomas  and  Josiah  Wedgwood,  the  great  potters, 
hearing  of  this,  and  knowing  Coleridge's  thirst  for  Ger- 


128       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

man  poetry  and  philosophy,  now  made  him  a  generous 
offer.  Seeing  that  he  was  in  danger  of  sacrificing  his 
noble  gifts,  they  offered  him  a  pension  of  ^"150  yearly, 
and  offered  to  pay  his  expenses  to  Germany  for  the 
opportunity  of  studying  the  subjects  lying  so  near  his 
heart. 

Coleridge  gratefully  accepted  their  kind  gift,  and 
decided  to  profit  by  the  promised  trip.  He  settled  the 
pension  upon  Sarah,  and  felt  she  could  be  comfortable 
during  his  absence.  Poor  Sarah  was  slowly  learning 
the  sad  lesson  of  withdrawing  her  heart  from  her 
husband's  companionship. 

Sarah's  grief  was  almost  inconsolable  when  she 
found  that  her  innocent  rival  in  her  husband's  affection 
was  to  be  of  the  party.  Her  sister,  Edith  Southey, 
and  also  Southey  himself,  reproached  Coleridge  for  his 
wandering  instincts. 

But  he  would  not  heed.  The  schools  of  Germany 
were  beckoning,  and  he  resolved  to  take  the  good  the 
gods  had  provided  for  him. 

Before  Coleridge  sailed  for  Germany,  he  and  Lamb 
had  the  only  misunderstanding  of  their  lives.  "  Cole 
ridge  had,  in  a  spirit  of  mischief,  written  a  satire  upon 
the  poets  of  the  new  volume  of  Lyrics  and  Sonnets 
— Coleridge,  Lloyd,  and  Lamb."  *  Lamb,  greatly 
piqued,  replied  most  bitterly,  and  for  once  in  his 
patient  life  wrote  the  sharp  things  that  came  upper 
most. 

Lamb  had  himself  written  jestingly  of  the  absurdity 

of  three  young  men  composing  sonnets  and  verses  to 

their  grandmothers.     As  he  was  ever  quick  to  catch  at 

an  absurdity,  such  "  venerable  love-making  "  struck  his 

*  "  Life  of  Coleridge." — HALL  CAINE. 


NEW  SCENES.  129 

sense  of  the  ludicrous.  But  Coleridge's  ridicule  stung 
like  a  whip,  and  from  this  interchange  of  sarcasms 
sprang  the  only  coolness  of  their  friendship. 

Coleridge  left  England  without  a  farewell.  Before 
he  left  he  sent  a  half  satiric  message  to  Lamb  :  "  Tell 
Lamb  to  apply  to  me  for  knowledge  ;  I  am  going  to  the 
fountain-head." 

Coleridge  and  the  Wordsworths  sailed  for  Hamburg, 
and  had  a  rough  voyage.  His  letters  home  (afterwards 
published  in  his  "  Biographia  Literaila,")  were  a 
charming  mixture  of  wit  and  observation,  from  a  poet's 
standpoint.  He  described  his  fellow-passengers  with 
vivid  power  :  * 

The  "  frog-colored  appearance "  of  those  who  re 
mained  on  deck  amid  the  miseries  of  the  "  exportations 
from  the  cabin  "  was  most  graphically  described.  "  I 
was  well  enough  to  join  the  able-bodied  passengers,  one 
of  whom  observed,  not  inaptly,  that  Momus  might 
have  discovered  an  easier  way  to  see  a  man's  inside 
than  by  placing  a  window  in  his  breast.  He  needed 
only  to  have  taken  a  salt-water  trip  in  a  packet-boat." 
He  says  :  "  Your  companions  are  of  greater  impor 
tance  to  you  than  in  a  stage-coach,  from  the  uncer 
tainty  of  how  long  you  may  be  obliged  to  house  with 
them." 

He  had  studied  the  different  passengers,  and  was 
interested  especially  in  two  Danish  brothers  who  talked 
English  with  marvelous  fluency  and  ludicrous  incor 
rectness.     "  The  Danes  christened   me    '  Doctor  Teo- 
logy,'  and  dressed  as  I   was,  all  in   black,  with   black 
worsted  stockings,  I  might   have  passed  for  a  Metho 
dist  missionary."      His  dialogue  with  the  Danes  is  a 
*  Satyrane's  Letters  :   "  Biographia  Literaria." 
9 


130      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

rich  picture  of  pedagogue  and  pride,  with  most  absurd 
misapplication  of  terms. 

His  description  of  a  comical  matrimonial  squabble 
between  another  couple,  and  several  other  character 
sketches,  prove  that  he  would  have  been  an  admirable 
humorist,  had  he  not  been  a  poet  and  a  philosopher. 
In  Germany  he  found  Blankaness  "a  most  interest 
ing  village,  scattered  amid  straggling  trees  over  three 
hills,  in  three  divisions.  .  .  Each  of  these  three  hills 
stares  upon  the  river  with  faces  of  bare  sand,  with  which 
the  boats  with  their  bare  poles,  standing  in  files  along 
the  banks,  made  a  sort  of  fantastic  harmony.  Between 
each  fagade  lies  a  green  and  woody  dell,  each  deeper 
than  the  other.  It  is  a  village  with  a  labyrinth  of 
paths,  or  rather  a  neighborhood  si  houses."  * 

Writing  of  his  experiences  and  impressions  of  the 
Continent,  he  said  :  "  Pipes  and  boots  are  the  first 
universal  characteristic.  The  character  of  gentleman 
is  frequent  in  England,  rare  in  France,  and  found,  when 
it  is  found,  in  age,  or  the  latest  period  of  manhood  ; 
while  in  Germany,  the  character  is  almost  unknown. 
But  the  proper  antipode  of  a  gentleman  is  to  be 
sought  for  among  the  Anglo-American  democrats. 

"  I  walked  on,  feeling  like  a  liberated  bird  that  had 
been  hatched  in  an  aviary,  who  now,  after  his  first  soar 
of  freedom,  poises  himself  in  the  upper  air.  Very 
naturally  I  began  to  wonder  at  all  things — Dutch 
women,  with  large  umbrella-hats,  shooting  out  half  a 
yard  before  them,  with  a  prodigal  plumpness  of  petti 
coat  behind — the  women  of  Hamburg  with  caps  plaited 
on  the  caul,  with  silver  or  gold  or  both,  bordered  around 
with  stiffened  lace  which  stood  out  before  their  eyes, 
*  Satyrane's  Letters  :  "  Biographia  Literaria." 


NEW  SCENES.  !3! 

so  that  their  eyes  sparkled  through  it— the  Hanoverian 
women  with  the  fore  part  of  the  head  bare,  then  a  stiff 
lace,  standing  up  like  a  wall,  perpendicular,  on  the  cap, 
and  behind  tailed  with  an  enormous  quantity  of  ribbon 
which  lies  or  tosses  on  the  back.  .  .  .  The  ladies  all  in 
English  dresses,  all  rouged,  and  all  with  bad  teeth, 
which  you  notice  from  their  contrast  to  the  almost- 
animal^  too  glossy,  mother-of-pearl  whiteness  of  the 
laughing,  loud-talking  country  women  and  servant 
girls,  who,  with  their  clean  white  stockings,  and  with 
slippers  without  heel-quarters,  tripped  along  the  dirty 
streets,  as  if  they  were  secured  by  a  charm  from  the 
dirt"* 

"  The  street  narrows  ;  to  my  English  nose  sufficiently 
offensive,  and  explaining,  at  first  sight,  the  universal 
use  of  boots,  without  any  appropriate  path  for  the 
foot-passengers.  .  .  .  The  gable  ends  of  the  houses  all 
towards  the  street,  some  in  the  ordinary  triangular  form 
and  entire,  as  the  botanists  say ;  but  the  greater  num 
ber  notched  and  scalloped  with  more  than  Chinese 
grotesqueness.  Above  all  I  was  struck  with  the 
profusion  of  windows,  so  large  and  so  many  that  the 
houses  look  all  glass.  Mr.  Pitt's  window  tax,  with 
its  pretty  little  additional*  sprouting  out  from  it  like 
young  toadlets  on  the  back  of  a  Surinam  toad,  would 
certainly  improve  the  appearance  of  the  Hamburg 
houses.  The  water  intersects  the  city  everywhere — it 
might  have  been  a  rival  of  Venice * 

"  I  passed  through  streets  and  streets,  as  happy  as  a 

child  :  amused  by  the  signboards  of  the  shops,  on  which 

all  articles  sold  within  are  painted,  and  that,  too,  very 

exactly,  though  in  grotesque  confusion  (a  useful  sub- 

*  Satyrane's  Letters:  "  Biographia  Litteraria." 


132       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

stitute  for  language  in  this  great  mart  of  nations) 
amused  with  the  incessant  tinkling  of  the  shop  and 
house  door  bells,  the  bell  hanging  over  each  door  and 
struck  with  a  small  iron  rod  at  every  entrance  and 
exit; — and  finally  amused  by  looking  in  at  the  windows 
as  I  passed  along ;  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  drinking 
coffee  or  playing  cards,  the  gentlemen  all  smoking. 
The  long  pipe  of  one  gentleman  rested  on  the  table, 
its  bowl  half  a  yard  from  his  mouth,  fuming  like  a 
censer  by  the  fish-pool, — the  other  man  who  was  deal 
ing  the  cards,  and  of  course  had  both  hands  employed, 
held  his  pipe  in  his  teeth,  which,  hanging  down  between 
his  knees,  smoked  beside  his  ankles.  Hogarth  him 
self  never  drew  a  more  ludicrous  distortion  both  of 
attitude  and  physiognomy.  Nor  was  there  wanting 
beside  it  one  of  those  beautiful  female  faces  which  the 
same  Hogarth  (in  whom  the  satirist  never  extinguished 
that  love  of  beauty  which  belonged  to  him  as  a  poet) 
so  often  and  so  gladly  introduces,  as  the  central  figure 
in  a  crowd  of  human  deformities  ;  which  figure  (such  is 
true  genius)  neither  acts  nor  is  meant  to  act  as  a  con 
trast  ;  but  diffuses  through  all,  and  over  each  of  the 
group,  a  spirit  of  reconciliation  and  human  kindness, 
which  blends  its  tenderness  with  our  laughter,  and  thus 
prevents  the  instinctive  merriment  at  the  whims  of 
nature  in  the  foibles  or  humors  of  our  fellow-men  from 
degenerating  into  the  heart-poison  of  contempt  or 
hatred."  * 

Thus  in  his  letters  Coleridge  poured  out  the  voluble 

eloquence  that   made   his    conversation  so   charming. 

His  keen  observation   of   everything  new,   strange,   or 

beautiful    constantly     suggested   interesting   trains  of 

*  "Biographia  Literaria." 


NEW  SCENES.  133 

thought ;   such  as  the  views  of  Hogarth  and  art  in  this 
last  letter. 

He  further  wrote  :  *  "  Our  hotel  has  one  great  ad 
vantage  for  a  stranger,  by  being  near  the  market 
place,  and  the  next  neighbor  of  the  huge  church  of  St. 
Nicholas,  a  church  with  shops  and  houses  built  up 
against  it,  out  of  which  wens  and  warts  its  high  massy 
steeple  rises,  necklaced  near  the  top  with  a  round  of  large 
gilt  balls.  A  better  pole-star  could  scarcely  be  desired. 
Long  shall  I  retain  the  impression  made  on  my  mind 
by  the  awful  echo,  so  loud  and  long  and  tremulous,  of 
the  deep-toned  clock  within  this  church,  which  awoke 
me  at  two  in  the  morning  from  a  distressful  dream 
occasioned,  I  believe,  by  the  feather-bed  which  is  here 
used  instead  of  bed-clothes.  I  will  rather  carry  my 
blanket  about  with  me,  like  a  wild  Indian,  than  submit 
to  this  abominable  custom." 

Meeting  in  Germany  many  French  refugees  and  emi 
grants  who  had  fled  from  the  French  Revolution, 
he  had  become  so  disgusted  with  their  "  profligacy, 
treachery,  and  hardheartedness,"  and  their  "corrupt 
principles  which  so  many  have  carried  into  the  families 
of  their  protectors,"  that  his  change  of  feeling  became 
complete.  He  wrote  :*  "My  heart  dilated  with  honest 
pride  as  I  recalled  to  mind  the  stern  yet  amiable  char 
acters  of  the  English  patriots  who  sought  refuge  on  the 
Continent  at  the  Restoration  !  O,  let  not  our  civil  war 
under  the  first  Charles  be  paralleled  with  the  French 
Revolution  !  In  the  former,  the  chalice  overflowed 
from  excess  of  principle  ;  in  the  latter,  from  the  fermen 
tation  of  the  dregs!  The  former  was  a  civil  war  between 

*  Satyrane's  Letters :  "  Biographia  Literaria." 


134      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

the  virtues  and  virtuous  prejudices  of  the  two  parties  ; 
the  latter,  between  the  vices." 

At  Hamburg,  Coleridge  met  the  poet  Klopstock, 
and  discussed  poetry  and  the  drama  with  him,  compar 
ing  Kotzebue,  Moliere,  and  Shakespeare,  and  upholding 
English  poetry  and  Milton.  He  says  :  *  "  Klopstock 
appeared  to  know  very  little  of  Milton,  or  indeed  of  our 
poets  in  general.  .  .  .  He  told  us  his  first  ode  was  fifty 
years  older  than  his  last.  I  looked  at  him  with  much 
emotion — I  considered  him  the  venerable  father  of 
German  poetry  ;  as  a  good  man,  as  a  Christian;  seventy- 
four  years  old  ;  with  legs  enormously  swollen  ;  yet  active, 
lively,  cheerful,  kind,  and  communicative.  Klopstock 
wore  a  toupee  periwig,  powdered  and  frizzled.  By  the 
by,  old  men  ought  never  to  wear  powder — the  contrast 
between  a  large,  snow-white  wig  and  the  color  of  an  old 
man's  skin  is  disgusting,  and  wrinkles  in  such  a  neigh 
borhood  appear  only  channels  for  dirt.  It  is  an  honor 
to  poets  and  great  men  that  you  think  of  them  as  parts 
of  nature,  and  anything  of  trick  and  fashion  wounds 
you  in  them  as  much  as  when  you  see  venerable  yews 
clipped  into  miserable  peacocks.  The  author  of  '  The 
Messiah '  should  have  worn  his  own  gray  hair — his 
powder  and  periwig  were,  to  the  eye,  what  Mr.  Virgil 
would  be  to  the  ear.  Klopstock  was  nearly  thirty 
years  composing  '  The  Messiah,'  but  of  these  thirty 
years  not  more  than  two  were  employed  in  the  composi 
tion.  He  only  composed  in  favorable  moments.  He 
called  Rousseau's  '  Ode  to  Fortune  '  a  moral  dissertation 
in  stanzas.  .  .  I  spoke  of  Dryden's  St.  Cecilia  ;  but  he 
did  not  seem  familiar  with  our  writers.  .  .  .  He  had  not 
heard  of  Cowper.  .  .  .  He  said  Lessing  was  the  first  of 

*  Satyrane's  Letters :     "  Biographia  Literaria." 


NEW  SCENES.  135 

their  dramatic  writers.  .  .  .  He  spoke  favorably  of 
Goethe,  but  said  his  '  Sorrows  of  Werter '  was  his 
best  work,  better  than  any  of  his  dramas.  Schiller's 
*  Robbers  '  he  found  so  extravagant  that  he  could  not 
read  it.  .  .  .  He  said  Schiller  could  not  live.  .  .  .  Burger 
he  said,  was  a  true  poet  and  would  live  ;  that  Schiller, 
on  the  contrary,  must  soon  be  forgotten  ;  that  he  gave 
himself  up  to  the  imitation  of  Shakespeare,  who  often 
was  extravagant,  but  that  Schiller  was  ten  thousand 
times  more  so.  ...  He  asked  whether  it  was  not  allowed 
that  Pope  had  written  rhymed  poetry  with  more  skill 
than  any  of  our  writers.  I  said  I  preferred  Dryden, 
because  his  couplets  had  greater  variety  in  their  move 
ment.  .  .  .  He  found  the  works  of  Kant  utterly  in 
comprehensible — that  he  had  often  been  pestered  by 
the  Kanteans  ;  but  was  rarely  in  the  practice  of 
arguing  with  them.  His  custom  was  to  produce  the 
book,  open  it  and  point  to  a  passage,  and  beg  they  would 
explain  it.  This  they  ordinarily  attempted  to  do  by 
substituting  their  own  ideas.  .  .  .  Until  the  appearance 
of  Kant  about  fifteen  years  ago,  Germany  had  not 
been  pestered  by  any  sect  of  philosophers  whatsoever." 
After  these  long  talks  with  Klopstock,  Coleridge  went 
to  Ratzeburg  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Klop 
stock  to  the  Antmann  of  Ratzeburg,  who  introduced 
him  to  the  pastor  with  whom  he  boarded  during  his  stay 
there.  He  says  :  "  On  the  road  to  Ratzeburg  the  inns 
and  farm-houses  at  which  we  stopped  .  .  .  were  all 
alike,  except  in  size  :  one  great  room  like  a  barn,  with 
a  hayloft  over  it,  the  straw  and  hay  dangling  in  tufts 
through  the  boards  which  formed  the  ceiling  of  the 
room  and  the  floor  of  the  loft.  From  this  room,  which 
is  paved  like  a  street,  sometimes  two  smaller  rooms 


136       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

are  enclosed  at  one  end.  These  are  commonly  floored. 
In  the  large  room  the  cattle,  pigs,  poultry,  men,  women 
and  children  live  in  amicable  community  ;  yet  there 
was  an  appearance  of  cleanliness  and  rustic  comfort. 
.  .  .  The  stalls  were  on  each  side,  eight  feet  in  depth. 
The  faces  of  the  cows,  etc.,  were  turned  toward  the 
room."  * 

After  lingering  awhile  at  Ratzeburg  and  visiting 
other  interesting  points,  the  Wordsworths  traveled 
further,  whilst  Coleridge  settled  at  Gottingen  to  study 
philosophy  and  metaphysics  and  natural  history  at 
headquarters.  After  five  months  of  eager  study  and 
novel  German  experience  in  the  quaint  University  town, 
Coleridge  undertook  a  pedestrian  tour  through  the 
Hartz  Mountains  with  a  party  of  college  friends. 
He  was  his  old  buoyant  self  again,  drifting  along  in 
the  sunshine  from  one  splendid  pine-clad  height  to 
another;  reveling  in  the  glorious  scenery  and  quaint 
old  buildings  of  the  ancient  German  towns. 

His  poet's  eye  sought  the  picturesque  in  the  old 
five-storied  roofs,  with  the  stork's  nest  on  the  apex,  and 
the  long-legged  birds  soaring  aloft,  or  feeding  their 
young  from  the  rim  of  their  nests. 

*  "  Biographia  Literaria." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ENGLISH    THESES    FOR    GERMAN    SOLUTION. 

Ye  ice  falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice 
And  stopped  at  once,  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven, 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?    Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer  !  And  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 

COLERIDGE. 

IN  all  these  months  Coleridge  had  not  sent  one  line 
to  his  life-long  friend  Lamb.  To  Coleridge's  last 
message  to  him,  "  Tell  Lamb  to  apply  to  me  for  knowl 
edge,"  Lamb,  piqued  at  the  insinuations,  had  replied 
with  his  usual  ready  wit,  sending  Coleridge  the  follow 
ing  : 

"DEAR  COLERIDGE, — The  '  frog  '  has  not  yet  jumped 
into  the  last  ditch,  but  he  is  contemplating  such  a  leap. 
Will  you  gratify  his  last  request  and  present  these 
Theses  to  the  University  for  solution,  dilution,  and 
circumlocution,  with  proper  doses  prescribed  ; 

"  I.  Whether  God  loves  a  lying  angel  better  than  a 
true  man  ? 


138       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  II.  Whether  the  archangel  Ariel  could  knowingly 
affirm  an  untruth,  and  whether  if  he  could  he  would  ? 

"III.  Whether  honesty  be  an  angelic  virtue,  or  not 
rather  belonging  to  that  class  of  qualities  which  the 
schoolmen  term  '  virtues  minus  splendida  et  hominis  et 
terrce  nimis  participes  ?  ' 

"IV.  Whether  the  seraphim  archangels  do  not  mani 
fest  their  goodness  by  way  of  vision  and  theory  ;  and 
whether  practice  be  not  a  sub-celestial  and  merely 
human  virtue  ? 

"  V.  Whether  the  higher  order  of  seraphim  illuminati 
ever  sneer. 

"  VI.  Whether  pure  intelligences  can  lore,  or  whether 
they  can  love  anything  but  pure  intellect  ? 

"  VII.  Whether  the  beatific  vision  be  anything  more 
or  less  than  a  perpetual  representation  to  each  indi 
vidual  angel  of  his  own  present  attainments  and  future 
capabilities,  something  in  the  manner  of  metal  look 
ing-glasses  ? 

"VIII.  Whether  an  'immortal  and  amenable  soul' 
may  not  come  to  be  damned  at  last,  and  the  man  never 
suspect  it  beforehand?"* 

Coleridge  laughed  on  receiving  this  message  with  a 
sting  in  its  tail,  and  showed  it  to  some  of  his  colleagues 
with  whom  he  was  forming  intimacies.  But  he  deigned 
no  reply.  With  his  studies  and  his  tobacco  fumes,  his 
new  scenes  and  new  friends,  he  was  drifting  away 
from  the  old  alliance  of  a  lifetime.  Even  wife  and 
children  seemed  far-away  visions  amid  the  new  ex 
periences. 

The  young  English  poet  was  a  lion  and  a  hero,  and 
his  learned  and  brilliant  conversation  attracted  notice 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 


ENGLISH  THESES  FOR  GERMAN  SOLUTION.   139 

and  admiration  wherever  he  went.  The  pines  and  great 
mountains  towering  to  heaven  inspired  him  with  awe ; 
the  spirit  of  poesy  had  hold  of  him.  He  and  his  com 
panions  would  climb  to  some  mountain  eyrie  perched 
upon  a  crag  amid  the  clouds,  and  in  a  stable,  or  upon 
the  kitchen  floor,  Coleridge  would  sleep,  and  forget  life 
and  its  tangles  and  uncertainties.  The  German  frau 
or  maid  found  his  gentle  manners  and  broken  speech 
irresistible,  and  the  freshest  pumpernickel  and  richest 
schwadermachen  were  placed  before  him.  He  blinked 
at  the  strength  of  the  schweitzer-Kase  and  the  fumes  of 
the  sauer-kraut,  and  ate  them  with  what  relish  he  could, 
the  long  mountain  tramps  and  the  bracing,  pine-scented 
air  giving  him  the  best  relish  for  any  meal — a  good 
appetite.  He  climbed  the  Brocken's  crests,  and  the 
witching  fragrance  of  the  pines  cast  its  spell  upon  him. 
His  poetic  senses  were  inspired  by  the  wild  beauty,  and 
the  Specter  of  the  Brocken  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
led  him  to  the  pinnacle  where  all  the  world  lay  beneath, 
softened  by  cloud  shadows  ;  and  dreaming  of  home 
amid  these  noble  scenes,  he  wrote : 

"  I  moved  on 

In  low  and  languid  mood ;  for  I  had  found 
That  outward  forms,  the  loftiest,  still  receive 
Their  finer  influence  from  the  Life  within  : 
Fair  ciphers  else  ;  fair,  but  of  import  vague 

My  native  land ! 

Filled  with  the  thought  of  thee  this  heart  was  proud, 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam  with  tears  ;    that  all  the  view 
From  sovereign  Brocken,  woods  and  woody  hills, 
Floated  away,  like  a  departing  dream, 
Feeble  and  dim 

Who  can  feel 

That  God  is  everywhere !  the  God  who  framed 
Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  world  our  home." 


I4o      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

He  tramped  through  the  dense  wildernesses  of  the 
Black  Forest,  amid  those  mighty  pines  that  ever  sigh 
and  sigh  for  the  dead  centuries.  He  followed  the 
winding  roads  cut  by  men  up  giddy  heights  and  down 
the  great  gorges  where  leap  in  endless  frolic  the  swift 
mountain  torrents,  and  the  plunging  Rhine,  freed  from 
Lake  Constance  and  the  Rhine  Falls,  to  sail  majestically 
past  the  Lorelei  and  its  thousand  sister  mountains,  past 
castled  crags  and  towered  cities  and  smiling  vineyards, 
to  the  low  sands  of  Holland,  with  its  vigilant  windmills 
and  myriad  canals,  down  to  the  sea. 

Coleridge  did  not  follow  it  in  all  its  windings  to 
the  North  Sea.  But  to  him,  as  to  all  thoughtful  trav 
elers  before  and  since,  the  storied  Rhine,  that  has 
been  the  main  artery  of  the  German  Fatherland  for 
centuries,  was  full  of  charm  and  mystery.  And  in 
those  days,  when  France  and  Austria  and  Prussia 
and  Belgium  were  wrangling  over  its  borders  and  con 
stantly  changing  the  ownership  of  its  boundaries,  it 
was  of  vital  interest  to  the  young  enthusiast.  For  the 
river  plunges  through  the  Via  Mala,  and  glides  through 
smiling  Lake  Constance,  and  rushes  past  the  castles 
and  fortresses  of  Alsace-Lorraine,  as  happily  when  the 
French  hold  Coblentz,  as  when  the  Fatherland  grasps 
all.  Men  and  nations  change ;  but  the  Rhine  goes  on 
forever. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ESTRANGEMENT. LAMB'S    FAREWELL    TO    TOBACCO. 

Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth, 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth, 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 

And  life  is  thorny,  and  youth  is  vain, 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

COLERIDGE — ChristabeL 

COLERIDGE'S  charming  letters  greatly  comforted  his 
wife  in  the  far-away  English  village  ;  but  she  had  many 
anxious  hours  thinking  of  her  wandering  poet.  She 
kept  up  a  brisk  correspondence  with  Lamb,  after  his 
visit  to  them,  and  Lamb's  pleasantries  and  bright  jokes 
coming  like  sunbeams  into  her  lonely  home,  with  Cole 
ridge's  brilliant  letters  from  Germany,  swept  away  the 
melancholy  that  her  loneliness  engendered. 

Lamb  often  wrote  to  Southey,  in  Coleridge's  absence, 
taking  this  mutual  friend  to  fill  the  woful  gap  in  his 
life  which  Coleridge's  estrangement  caused.  He  took 
Southey  roundly  to  task  for  writing  a  criticism  of 
"The  Ancient  Mariner  "  in  the  "Critical  Review."* 
"  I  am  sorry  you  are  so  sparing  of  your  praises  to  the 
'  Ancient  Mariner.'  So  far  from  calling  it,  as  you  do, 
with  some  wit,  but  more  severity,  a  Dutch  attempt,  I 
call  it  a  right  English  attempt,  and  a  successful  one, 
to  dethrone  German  sublimity.  You  have  selected 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." —  TALFOURD. 


1 42       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

a  passage  fertile  in  unmeaning  miracles,  but  have 
passed  fifty  passages  as  miraculous  as  the  miracle 
they  depict.  I  never  so  deeply  felt  the  pathetic  as  in 
that  part : 

"  '  A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware.' 

"  It  stung  me  into  high  pleasure  through  suffering ; 
and  this  : 

"  <  So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  Himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be.' 

"  But  you  allow  some  elaborate  beauties  ;  you  should 
have  extracted  them." 

It  was  brave  of  Lamb,  and  so  like  his  true  heart,  to 
vindicate  his  estranged  and  absent  friend.  He  always 
was  thus  loyal,  and  this  fealty  made  him  so  beloved 
by  all  his  friends.  Southey  richly  deserved  the  re 
proach  ;  he  was  an  old  friend,  and  a  brother-in-law, 
and  took  the  relative's  privilege  of  unsparing  criticism. 
And  'tis  just  here  that  Southey's  traits  grow  unlovely. 
He  criticised  without  tenderness,  and  he  always  placed 
candor  above  generosity.  The  hardness  of  intolerance 
and  bigotry  was  growing  around  the  once  open,  im 
pulsive  nature.  It  was  the  root  of  bitterness  which 
spread  as  life's  trials  increased.  Southey  was  over 
conscientious  about  fulfilling  certain  duties.  He  ham 
pered  himself  with  Lovell's  widow,  and  others  who 
were  not  properly  cared  for  by  their  natural  protectors, 
but  his  generosity  was  ever  tinged  by  a  certain  bitter 
ness  towards  those  who  shirked  duty. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Charles  Lamb's  father  died, 
and  was  buried  beside  his  wife  in  St.  Andrew's  Church, 
Holborn,  a  place  which  has  since  been  swept  away  by 


ESTRANGEMENT.  143 

the  march  of  improvements.  It  was  a  pretty  little 
church  where  the  New  River  purled  along  by  the 
graveyard,  and  not  far  distant  from  Lamb's  old  quar 
ters,  Christ's  Hospital,  and  his  old  home  in  the  Temple. 

At  last  Mary  could  return  home  !  She  had  waited 
very  patiently  for  the  coveted  release  from  her  lonely 
isolation,  and  her  return  to  her  beloved  brother,  whose 
frequent  visits,  during  the  Sundays  spent  with  her  at 
Islington,  only  made  her  long  more  keenly  to  be  with 
him,  as  of  old.  And  now  that  their  father  was  laid  in 
the  grave,  Charles  was  alone,  save  the  old  servant, 
Hetty. 

It  was  two  years  since  the  brother  and  sister  had 
lived  together,  but  the  long  gap  of  suffering  and  distress 
was  bridged  over,  and  the  cosy  tea-table,  the  book  and 
sewing  during  the  evenings,  gave  Lamb  the  most  ex 
quisite  pleasure. 

"  'Tis  worth  the  p-pain  of  separation,  Mary,  to  have 
thee  in  the  old  ingle  nook  1-like  the  genius  of  h-h-home," 
he  stammered,  looking  with  his  sweet  smile  into  Mary's 
placid  face.  "  I  fear  this  s-s-smoking  has  grown  upon 
me  in  the  lonely  evenings,  and  in  the  e-e-effort  to  keep 
awake  for  poor  Daddy's  interminable  c-c-c-cards." 

"  I  will  help  you  do  without  this  poisoned  pleasure, 
dear.  Read  Coleridge's  poems  to  me,  and  then  you  will 
not  care  to  smoke  to-night." 

Charles  laughed  at  her  promptness  in  assuming  the 
generalship,  and  doing  battle  against  his  enemy — 
tobacco. 

"Well,  it  is  like  having  one's  wife  and  f-f-family 
back,"  he  sighed,  in  the  comfort  of  the  cosy  fireside. 

After  a  few  days  of  the  pleasant  home-life,  Mary  saw 
that  another  habit  had  taken  hold  of  her  beloved 


144      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

brother;  he  was  too  fond  of  his  "night-cap,"  as  he 
called  his  glass  of  whisky  and  hot  water. 

"  We  must  banish  another  enemy,  eh  !  Charles  ? " 
she  asked,  placing  her  hands  tenderly  upon  his 
shoulders.  "  Shall  we  not  let  the  old  tankard  of  ale 
come  back,  instead  of  the  hot  whisky  ?  " 

"  Ah,  B-B-Bridget,  but  you  are  hard  on  a  s-s-sinner ; 
I  have  given  you  my  s-s-sword,  and  will  you  take  my 
staff  too  ?  But  you  are  right,  those  confounded 
p-p-pipes  and  cups  are  my  worst  enemies,  and.  we 
w-w-will  defeat  them — some  day,"  he  added,  looking 
anxiously  at  the  corner  cupboard — "  but  to-night " 

"  No,  Charles,  to-night  is  better  than  to-morrow,  and 
I  have  sent  Hetty  for  fresh  ale." 

"  W-w-well,  tyrants  must  have  their  way,"  he  stam 
mered,  ruefully. 

"  Have  you  had  no  letter  from  Coleridge,  brother  ? " 

"  Now,  Mary,  you  want  to  drive  me  straight  to  the 
arms  of  my  enemy  for  c-c-comfort  !  He  has  not  written 
to  me  for  a  y-year,  and  they  say  he  will  soon  be 
h-home." 

"This  estrangement  must  have  been  doubly  bitter  to 
you  in  this  year  of  loneliness,  dear,  and  I  am  glad  he 
is  coming  home  ;  he  cannot  see  you  without  going  back 
to  the  old  pleasant  relations  with  his  chum." 

"  I  hope  so,  Mary,  I  h-h-hope  so,  "  said  Charles 
earnestly.  "  I  think  the  death  of  dear  little  B-Berkeley 
will  soften  his  heart  to  old  friends  who  love  him  and 
his  little  ones." 

After  a  few  months  of  serene  domestic  happiness, 
Charles  noticed  the  fatal  symptoms  returning.  A  certain 
nervous  irritability  was  hovering  around  his  placid 
sister,  and  a  sudden  stupor  showed  him  that  Mary  was 


ESTRANGEMENT.  145 

threatened  with  one  of  her  spells  of  insanity.  He  seized 
the  boiling  tea-kettle  and  held  it  close  to  her  spotless 
cap  to  arouse  her.  The  poor  girl  realized  what  was 
threatening  her,  and  quietly  submitted  to  the  strait- 
jacket.  With  bitter  tears  the  unhappy  brother  and 
sister  walked  to  Hoxton,  and  there  poor  Mary  remained 
for  six  weeks,  wildly  singing,  reciting,  or  imagining 
herself  now  a  leader  in  the  French  Revolution,  and 
now  a  court  dame. 

Meantime  Charles  returned  home  more  desolate  than 
ever,  after  the  winter's  pleasant  companionship  with 
one  who  understood  and  sympathized  with  every  phase 
of  his  high  spirits  or  his  dullness,  and  only  required  of 
him  what  he  was  ready  to  give. 

"  Few  wives  could  do  this,"  thought  Charles.  "  Wives 
are  always  peering  into  their  husband's  affairs,  and 
expecting  a  man's  moods  to  suit  their  own." 

He  sighed  deeply,  and  closing  the  now  deserted 
room,  sought  the  "  Salutation  and  Cat,"  where  he  and 
Coleridge  had  spent  so  many  happy  evenings  a  few 
years  before.  He  smoked  and  drank  among  the  con 
vivial  spirits  gathered  there,  and  went  stupidly  home, 
forgetting  to  take  off  his  gaiters  and  shoes  on  going  to 
bed. 

When  he  awoke  late  the  next  morning,  with  a  head 
ache,  and  the  evidences  of  last  night's  potations,  he 
was  disgusted  with  himself  and  all  the  world. 

"  This  won't  do,"  he  grumbled  ;  "  I  wonder  if  old 
Mac  won't  give  me  a  week's  leave  to  run  up  and  see 
Lloyd." 

In  a  few  days,  he  was  on  the  coach  for  Cambridge, 
where  Lloyd  had  settled  after  his  marriage. 

Lamb,  always  fond  of  classic  scenes  and  time-hon- 
10 


146       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

ored  buildings,  gazed  with  delight  upon  the  exquisite  old 
towers  and  pinnacles  of  the  colleges,  and  feasted  his 
soul  upon  the  hoary,  ivy-covered  walls  and  arches  and 
oriels.  "  The  lime  avenues  of  Oxford  are  finer,  and 
the  forest  of  sp-spires  and  t-t-towers  there  outvie  the 
beauties  of  C-C-Cambridge,"  he  said,  whilst  studying 
the  place  ;  "  but  either  is  g-good  enough  for  an  Eng 
lishman's  p-paradise." 

Here  Lloyd  introduced  him  to  Manning,  a  professor 
of  mathematics  at  Trinity,  and  the  two  at  once  became 
warm  friends,  finding  innumerable  points  of  sympathy. 
Manning  was  as  great  a  wag  as  Lamb,  with  an  in 
imitable  faculty  of  facial  expression,  and  whilst  Lloyd 
would,  as  Lamb  expressed  it,  "  run  the  gamut  through 
all  the  keys  of  idiotism,  until  he  felt  like  one  possessed, 
Manning  could  out-gamut  Lloyd,  in  all  the  keys,  from 
the  smile  to  the  glimmer  of  half  sense  and  quarter 
sense,  and  on  to  the  grin  and  hanging  lip  of  imbe 
cility."  * 

After  Lamb's  return  to  London  he  wrote :  "  I  do 
long  to  see  your  honest  Manning  face  again."  Manning 
promised  to  visit  him,  and  Lamb  eagerly  looked  for 
ward  to  his  congenial  companionship. 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — TALFOURD. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"HEADS  OR  TAILS?" 

O  meek   retiring  spirit !     We  will  climb, 
Cheering  and  cheered,  this  lovely  hill  sublime; 
And  from  the  stirring  world  uplifted  high 
(Whose  noises  faintly  wafted  in  the  wind 
To  quiet  musings  shall  attune  the  mind)  .... 
We'll  smile  at  wealth  and  learn  to  smile  at  fame, 
Our  hopes,  our  knowledge,  and  our  joys  the  same." 

COLERIDGE. 

MEANTIME  Coleridge  had  reached  England  in  July 
and  hastened  to  Stowey,  where  Sarah  was  once  more 
happy  in  having  her  husband  with  her.  How  foreign 
he  seemed  with  his  German  pipe,  and  the  broad  laugh, 
instead  of  the  gentle  smile  of  old  !  It  was  so  sweet  to 
have  him  again  after  all  those  weary  months,  that  she 
started  in  terror  when  he  spoke  of  London  and  work, 
and  the  lines  gathered  around  the  tired  mouth  at  the 
thought  that  his  return  was  but  temporary.  She  tried 
all  the  little  wifely  tricks  and  endearments  that  bind 
a  man's  heart  to  home.  Little  Hartley  was  an  endless 
delight  to  him,  and  was  so  proud  of  "  the  great  papa." 
Coleridge  felt  a  new  tenderness  for  the  mother  who 
was  shorn  of  her  little  nursling,  the  baby  Berkeley. 
But  he  must  find  immediate  work,  and  the  wanderer 
felt  the  restless  cravings  for  change  creeping  upon  him. 
His  wife's  sadness,  when  he  showed  signs  of  restless- 


148       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

ness,  oppressed  the  sensitive  man,  and  in  September 
he  again  left  home  to  join  the  Wordsworths  in  a  trip 
to  Westmoreland,  where  Wordsworth  was  thinking  of 
settling.  They  visited  the  beautiful  Lake  Windermere 
that  winds  down  the  long  valley  at  the  foot  of  Orrest 
Head,  and  the  long  line  of  beautifully  wooded  low 
mountains  that  form  the  lake's  environment.  They 
came  to  quaint  Ambleside,  with  its  low  stone  cottages 
in  their  pretty  flower  gardens,  with  the  nasturtiums 
trailing  like  red  and  yellow  flames  over  the  old  stone 
walls.  They  stopped  at  one  of  the  quaint  stone  inns, 
and  visited  the  old  mills  at  the  foot  of  the  cascades 
that  plunge  into  the  wooded  valley  from  the  mountain 
top.  They  followed  the  fine  old  coaching  road,  on 
past  Rydal  Mount,  where  Rydal  Water  reflects  the 
beautiful  villas,  and  Leigh  Hall,  with  Nab-Scar  rising 
like  a  sentinel  guarding  the  jewels,  on  to  Grasmere. 
There,  between  Nab-Scar  and  Scawfell,  nestle  the 
pretty  stone  cottages  with  climbing  roses  peeking  into 
the  diamond-paned  windows  and  fringing  the  roofs. 
The  arched  stone  bridge  over  the  rippling  Rothay  lay 
close  to  the  little  stone  church  with  its  tiny  graveyard 
back,  bordered  by  the  murmuring  stream,  that  forever 
and  forever  sings  its  requiem  over  the  quiet  dead  in 
this  peaceful  spot.  Wordsworth  found  a  tiny  cottage 
at  Grasmere,  where  he  and  his  sister  settled,  and  Cole 
ridge  went  to  London.  He  found  work  at  the  office  of 
"  The  Morning  Post,"  and  for  months  his  articles  were 
the  most  popular  matter  in  that  paper.  He  took 
lodgings  upon  Buckingham  Street,  just  off  the  Strand. 
The  street  is  a  short  one,  running  but  from  the 
Strand  to  the  Thames,  and  from  his  garret  windows 
he  could  see  the  sails  passing  up  and  down  the  river ; 


"HEADS  OR   TAILS?  "  149 

and  here  the  air  seemed  purer  and  lighter  than  in  the 
more  densely  packed  streets. 

Lamb,  hearing  where  his  old  friend  was  staying,  pock 
eted  his  pride,  and  hastened  to  welcome  Coleridge  back 
to  England.  When  he  was  announced,  Coleridge  hesi 
tated  a  moment,  remembering  those  Theses ;  but  the 
moment  he  saw  the  well-known  little  figure  in  the  black 
small-clothes  and  gaiters,  with  the  angelic  smile  on  lips 
and  eyes,  he  held  out  his  arms,  and  the  old  friends  were 
reunited  after  the  only  estrangement  in  nearly  twenty 
years  of  friendship.  They  talked  the  night  away.  Lamb 
told  Coleridge  of  Mary's  return  home,  and  of  her  illness 
a  few  months  before,  and  of  her  many  inquiries  about 
him.  Lamb  feasted  his  eyes  upon  his  bronzed  friend, 
and  exclaimed,  "  What  a  Th-Theseus  you  are  !  "  and  the 
two  laughed  over  the  sly  allusion  to  their  wrangle. 

"  I  do  believe  you  would  pun  on  my  grave,"  laughed 
Coleridge. 

"  No ;  I  draw  the  line  at  that,  C-C-Coleridge,  'tis  too 
grave  a  subject,"  said  Lamb,  with  a  twinkle  in  the  merry 
brown  eyes. 

"  Oh,  you  wagging  wag !  what  have  you  written  since 
I  climbed  the  Alps  ? "  asked  Coleridge. 

"  I'll  read  you  '  Rosamond  Grey  '  when  you  c-c-come 
to-morrow.  Southey  likes  it  well,  "  he  added.  "  Your 
old  friend  Lloyd  is  married,  and  I  have  just  returned 
from  a  delightful  visit  to  him  at  Cambridge,  and  met 
there  a  fine  f-fellow  named  Manning.  He  will  visit  me 
s-soon,  and  I  want  you  to  know  him.  And  you,  what 
have  you  to  show  for  all  these  months,  besides  your 
b-bronzed  skin  ? " 

"  I  have  written  some  descriptive  poems,  and  ab 
sorbed  many  new  ideas ;  and  shall  settle  down  at 


150       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE, 

once  to  translate  Schiller's  'Wallenstein,'  "  said  Cole 
ridge. 

And  this  erratic  genius  actually  did  make  a  splendid 
free  translation  of  that  work  in  six  weeks,  adding  a 
couplet  which  so  pleased  Schiller  that  he  translated  it 
into  German,  and  published  it  in  his  next  edition. 

His  political  articles  in  the  "  Morning  Post "  attracted 
much  notice.  His  admiration  for  Bonaparte  and  the 
French  Revolution  had  materially  changed  since  the 
"  little  Corsican  "  had  shown  the  cloven  foot  of  ambi 
tion.  Napoleon,  having  returned  from  Egypt,  after  his 
reverses  on  the  Nile,  had  proclaimed  himself  First  Con 
sul,  and  written  a  most  plausible  letter  to  George  III.  of 
England,  expatiating  upon  the  glories  and  advantages 
of  peace,  and  recommending  a  pacific  mutual  under 
standing  between  the  two  countries.  But  Pitt  and  his 
party  were  utterly  opposed  to  allowing  England  to  sleep 
while  the  treacherous  Napoleon  should  gain  time  to 
recruit  his  shaken  armies. 

And  now  Coleridge,  suffering  from  the  reaction  of 
feeling  after  his  wild  and  misplaced  enthusiasm  for 
Napoleon,  shifted  around  as  strongly  to  the  other  side. 
His  horror  at  the  French  atrocities  had  sent  him  to 
the  opposite  extreme  of  upholding  the  powers  that  be, 
rather  than  encourage  the  license  committed  in  the  name 
of  Liberty.  And  now,  when  the  usurper  urged  peace, 
Coleridge,  having  learned  to  doubt  his  integrity,  joined 
the  formerly  despised  Tories  in  advocating  war  and  the 
punishment  of  the  tyrant.  His  articles  in  the  "  Morn 
ing  Post  "  upholding  Pitt's  course  did  much  to  continue 
the  war.  He  was  thus  in  the  anomalous  position  of  a 
man  battling  vigorously  for  the  very  party  he  had  always 
denounced,  and  denouncing  the  leniency  he  had  for- 


'  *  HEADS  OR  TA I  LSI  "  151 

merly  upheld.  He  and  Lamb  had  many  hot  discussions 
upon  this  change  of  party  ;  Lamb  entirely  agreeing  with 
the  disgusted  Fox,  who  refused  to  take  part  in  these 
gratuitous  war  troubles. 

Again  was  Coleridge  carried  away  by  his  overwhelm 
ing  ideality.  The  leader  of  the  people  had  betrayed 
his  cause,  therefore  he  must  be  annihilated,  and  no 
treaties  must  be  entered  into  with  a  perjured  usurper  ! 
One  sees  here  the  same  high  ideal  of  truth  and  right ; 
and  in  upholding  this,  the  shifting  of  one's  platform  in 
politics  is  as  nothing.  He  wrote  in  his  usual  desul 
tory  way,  sending  out  innumerable  articles  when  the 
spirit  was  upon  him,  and  sinking  into  his  ease-loving 
lethargy  when  his  enthusiasm  waned.  He  became 
assistant  editor  upon  the  "  Morning  Post,"  Lamb  and 
Southey  also  contributing  to  his  department.  His  suc 
cess  was  such,  that  in  March,  1800,  Stuart  of  the  "  Post " 
and  "  Courier  "  offered  Coleridge  a  half  interest,  with 
£2,000  a  year,  if  he  would  become  sub-editor.  This 
was  the  chance  of  his  life,  the  pivotal  point !  Regular 
occupation  and  plentiful  means  would  have  saved  the 
man  ;  and  it  need  not  have  killed  the  poet,  as  he  feared. 
He  needed  the  money  sadly ;  he  needed  the  check  to 
his  restless  spirit,  as  a  wayward  horse  needs  bit  and 
bridle.  What  did  he  choose  ? 

To  him  it  meant  a  life  of  toil  in  paths  he  especially 
disliked,  and  the  restriction  of  personal  and  mental 
liberty.  A  poet  feels  that  he  can  write  only  when  the 
voice  within  claims  to  be  heard.  Coleridge  felt  that 
he  was  listening  to  his  conscience  when  he  declined. 
He  knew  he  was  yielding  up  a  competence  and  regular 
work  for  the  sake  of  those  poetic  dreams  which 
haunted  his  spirit.  He  little  knew  the  result  of  his 


152       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

choice.  "  If  men  could  but  see  the  turning-point  in 
their  lives,  how  much  better  and  easier  life  would  be  ! 
Such  an  era  comes  to  each  one  of  us.  We  may  make 
our  decision  conscientiously,  selfishly,  or  stupidly.  But 
the  choice  is  given  us  if  we  but  realize  it ;  and  our  own 
decisions  make  or  mar  our  lives,"  said  Wordsworth  upon 
hearing  of  his  friend's  choice. 

The  die  was  cast,  Coleridge's  heart  was  set  upon  an 
untrammeled  life  amid  the  charms  of  nature,  with  free 
dom  to  interpret  her  voice.  He  wrote  to  his  old  friend 
Thomas  Poole  : 

"  If  I  had  the  least  love  of  money  I  could  make  sure 
of  ,£2,000  a  year ;  but  I  would  not  so  give  up  the  country 
and  the  lazy  reading  of  old  folios  for  2,000  times  ,£2,000. 
In  short,  beyond  .£350  a  year,  I  consider  money  as  a 
real  evil."  * 

His  poor  wife,  living  on  the  Wedgwood  pension  of 
£150  a  year,  might  have  said:  "If  money  be  an  evil, 
the  want  of  it  is  by  far  a  worse  evil." 

Our  hero  did  not,  however,  consult  his  wife  about  a 
paltry  ,£2,000  a  year.  Of  course  she  would  say : 
"  Stick  to  your  work  and  accept  the  position — and  the 
money."  Of  course  she  could  not  see  the  importance 
of  a  poet's  being  free  from  the  requirements  of  routine 
work,  and  from  printers  clamoring  at  stated  times  for 
so  many  columns  of  brain-product. 

Lamb  saw  his  friend's  tendency  to  drift  with  each 
tide,  and  felt  that  he  needed  a  rudder  and  sail.  He  urged 
Coleridge,  with  all  the  eloquence  of  his  earnest,  loving 
heart,  to  accept  the  position.  He  knew,  from  his 
twenty-five  years  of  experience,  that  work  might  cripple, 

*  "  Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends." — SANDFORD. 


"  HE  A  DS  OR   TA ILS  ?n  1 5  3 

but  need  not  kill  poetic  fancies  and  inspirations.  He 
knew  that  Coleridge  was  too  erratic  to  trust  to  steady 
purpose  in  working,  with  no  especial  impetus.  He  felt 
that  success  as  a  writer  would  make  a  man  of  him  ;  but 
that  harsh  criticism  would  shrink  his  powers,  as  a  touch 
does  a  sensitive  plant. 

But  Coleridge  was  determined  to  remain  unfettered. 
He  felt  great  thoughts  and  beautiful  poems  burning 
for  utterance,  and  he  loved  to  dream  of  the  past,  the 
present,  and  the  future.  He  had  tried  to  edit  and 
write  for  a  magazine  ;  <:The  Watchman  "  had  been  a 
nightmare ;  but  then  he  was  hampered  by  having  no 
money  to  meet  the  expenses.  Journalism  meant  un 
remitting  toil  with  no  release  from  bit  and  bridle.  So, 
he  let  his  golden  chance  go  by. 

The  air  was  softening,  and  even  in  smoky  London 
the  summer  sun  sent  golden  rays  through  the  trees  in 
Hyde  Park,  and  dotted  with  daisies  the  grass  in  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard  and  around  the  Abbey.  Coleridge, 
feeling  his  soul  answering  to  the  voices  of  nature  call 
ing  from  the  hills  and  lakes,  fled  to  Westmoreland, 
where  Wordsworth  was  living  a  poet's  idyl  at  Grasmere. 

Looking  about  for  a  rest  for  himself  and  his  family 
near  his  friend,  he  found  Greta  Hall,  upon  the  hill 
above  Keswick.  From  the  house,  one  could  look  down 
upon  Keswick,  and  across  pretty  meadows  where  the 
Greta  ripples  by  under  its  arched  bridges,  to  Derwent- 
water.  Behind  Greta  Hall  stretched  out  a  long  line  of 
lofty  peaks,  with  Skiddaw,  towering  to  the  clouds. 
It  was  a  picturesque  spot,  rustic,  yet  homelike  enough 
to  touch  a  poet's  fancy.  The  house  stood,  broad  and 
inviting,  with  its  central  hall  and  wide  doorway.  One 
half  was  occupied  by  the  owner,  Mr.  Jackson,  who  had 


154      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

a  fine  library  and  afterwards  became  a  warm  friend  of 
the  Coleridges.  The  poets  could  easily  walk  the  ten 
or  twelve  miles  separating  Greta  Hall  from  Grasmere  ; 
even  though  the  road  lay  over  the  Dunmail  Raise,  a 
constant  succession  of  heather-covered  mountains  and 
yew-clad  vales.  Thirlmere  Lake,  and  the  "  Mighty 
Helvellyn,"  lying  just  beyond  Grasmere,  added  to  the 
charm  of  the  walk.  At  twenty-seven,  Coleridge  was  an 
inveterate  walker  and  he  climbed  those  mountains  in  all 
weathers,  regardless  of  the  pitiless  storms  that  often 
burst  upon  their  crowns.  The  many  wettings  of  those 
wild  rambles  increased  the  rheumatism  and  gout  that 
became  the  torment  of  his  life. 

He  had  always  suffered  with  rheumatism  since  the 
days  at  Christ's  Hospital,  and  the  careless  baths  in 
New  River  and  the  Otter.  The  chilly  Lake  country, 
with  its  shut-in  vales  and  mountain  mists,  was  the 
worst  location  he  could  have  chosen  for  a  home.  But 
he  considered  being  near  Wordsworth  a  sufficient  off 
set.  Thomas  Poole,  their  kind  neighbor  at  Stowey, 
protested  against  the  Coleridges  leaving.  And  it  was 
equally  hard  for  Coleridge  to  part  from  so  dear  a  friend  ; 
but  he  had  learned  to  look  upon  Wordsworth  as 
necessary  to  his  poetic  development,  and  clung  to  him 
as  the  ivy  to  its  fostering  oak.  So,  gathering  up  their 
household  gods,  and  bidding  farewell  to  Stowey  and  their 
Bristol  friends,  they  took  the  stage-wagon  to  the  North, 
and  settled  in  their  third  and  last  home,  Keswick. 

Sarah  hailed  this  new  residence  gladly,  as  promising 
a  more  settled  life  for  her  husband.  She  had  long  ago 
relinquished  her  feeling  of  resentment  against  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  for  filling  a  place  she  knew  she  could  not 
reach  in  her  husband's  intellectual  life ;  and  she  now 


"HEADS  OR  TAILS?"  155 

felt  that  Wordsworth  was  the  real  attraction.  She  saw 
Coleridge's  reverent  admiration  for  his  serious  friend, 
and  knowing  him  to  be  a  good  man,  she  rejoiced  in  the 
intimacy  which  she  believed  of  so  great  a  benefit  to  her 
husband.  She  found  some  new  friends  in  their  new 
home,  especially  Miss  James,  the  vicar's  daughter,  who 
lived  in  an  adjoining  cottage. 

In  the  years  following,  the  Coleridges  had  their  little 
circle  in  the  Lake  country,  where  their  children  grew  up. 

Coleridge  himself  found  few  friends  among  the  plain 
people  of  the  Lakes  ;  Wordsworth  and  Nature  were 
enough  for  him,  and  he  filled  his  heart  with  both. 
During  his  many  long  absences  it  was  often  a  dreary 
life  for  the  young  wife,  but  she  was  learning  not  even 
to  look  a  complaint. 

Does  any  man  know  how  hard  it  is  for  an  earnest, 
warm-hearted  woman  to  learn  to  suppress  the  many 
anxieties  and  discontents  born  of  her  love  ?  An  in 
different  woman  can  accept  indifference,  but  the  very 
semblance  of  it  stings  a  loving  wife.  The  continual 
hypocrisy  of  hiding  all  traces  of  the  struggle  to  keep  a 
waning  love  might  well  kill  hers  soon  ;  but  love  dies 
hard  in  some  natures.  Her  poet  was  often  moody  and 
silent,  but  she  must  not  wonder  at  it.  \Vhen  cheerful, 
he  often  became  wildly  hilarious,  and  she  must  be  ready 
to  respond  in  a  moment,  lest  she  should  check  the 
mirth,  and  bring  scowls  or  depression.  She  was  trying 
hard  to  learn  all  the  moods  and  tenses  of  a  poet's  soul ; 
but  it  is  a  most  irregular  verb  to  conjugate,  and  does 
not  always  agree  with  its  subject.  She  must  not 
expect  him  to  respond  to  her  little  griefs  or  pleasures. 
No  man  likes  to  see  a  woman  depressed  or  uneasy. 
So  she  made  the  new  home  bright  and  cheerful,  and 


156      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Coleridge  awoke  to  a  new  happiness  amid  the  lakes  and 
mountains,  with  the  warm  fireside  and  pleasant  rooms, 
with  his  great  easy-chair  drawn  before  the  hearth,  and 
a  fine  old  organ  making  an  artistic  background.  He 
placed  an  ./Eolian  harp  in  an  upper  window,  and  the 
winds  from  Skiddaw  sang  weird  chaunts  through  the 
poet's  home,  and  inspired  him  to  dreams  as  melodious 
as  their  chords.  Surely,  now,  his  restless  spirit  might 
learn  the  charms  of  repose  and  peace ! 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

ECCENTRICITIES,  SEEN    THROUGH    HUMOROUS  EYES. 

There's  Allan  C ,  the  large-hearted  Scot,  and  Procter,  can 
did  and  affectionate  as  his  own  poetry.  .  .  And  Coleridge  him 
self,  the  same  to  me  still  as  in  those  old  evenings  when  we  used 
to  sit  and  speculate  at  our  old  '  Salutation  '  tavern,  upon  Panti- 
socracy,  and  golden  days  to  come  on  earth.  And  Wordsworth.  .  .  . 
(H.  C.  R.),  unwearied  in  the  offices  of  a  friend;  and  Clarkson, 
almost  above  the  narrowness  of  that  relation, — and  the  gall-less 
and  single-minded  Dyer,  and.  .  .  .  the  veteran  Colonel  B.,  with 
his  lusty  heart,  still  sending  cartels  of  defiance  to  old  Time. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

CHARLES  LAMB  wrote  often  to  his  friends,  glad  to 
have  back  the  old  friendship,  without  which  his  soul 
had  limped,  crippled,  through  the  weariness  of  the 
clerk's  desk  and  his  home  troubles.  He  wrote  gay 
letters,  sad  letters,  witty  letters,  critical  letters,  the 
overflow  of  a  deep,  true  nature.  He  criticised  Cole 
ridge's  writings,  and  sweetened  the  criticisms  with 
judicious  praise.  He  wrote  :  "  For  God's  sake,  don't 
make  me  ridiculous  any  more,  by  terming  me  *  gentle- 
hearted'  in  print;  or  do  it  in  better  verse.  It  did 
well  enough  five  years  ago,  when  I  came  to  see  you 
and  was  moral  coxcomb  enough  to  feed  upon  such 
epithets  ;  but  besides  that,  the  meaning  of  •  gentle  ' 
is  equivocal  at  best,  and  almost  always  means  poor- 
spirited.  The  very  quality  of  gentleness  is  abhorrent 
to  such  vile  trumpetings.  ...  I  hope  my  virtues  have 


15&      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

done  snaking"  "  Please  to  blot  out  ' gentle-hearted  ' 
and  substitute  drunken  dog,  ragged  head,  seld-shaven, 
odd-eyed,  stuttering,  or  any  other  epithet  which  truly 
and  properly  belongs  to  the  gentleman  in  question."  : 

Of  the  death  of  the  faithful  old  servant,  which  so 
shocked  Mary  that  she  had  another  spell,  and  was 
obliged  to  go  to  the  asylum  again,  he  wrote  : 

"  I  shall  be  quite  alone,  with  nothing  but  a  cat  to 
remind  me  that  the  house  has  been  full  of  living  beings 
like  myself.  .  .  .  My  heart  is  quite  sunk,  and  I  don't 
know  where  to  look  for  relief.  Mary  will  get 
better  again ;  but  her  constantly  being  liable  to  such 
relapses  is  dreadful.  We  are  in  a  manner  marked. 
Excuse  my  troubling  you,  but  I  have  no  one  else  to 
speak  to."  * 

He  felt  keenly  the  notice  caused  by  their  affliction, 
and  longed  to  return  to  London  from  their  house  at 
Pentonville.  He  wrote  to  Manning  :  "  We  are  in  a 
manner  marked  people,  and  can  be  nowhere  private 
except  in  the  midst  of  London."  f 

At  this  time  Coleridge  paid  him  a  visit  of  three 
weeks,  and  after  this  pleasant  break  in  his  loneliness, 
he  wrote  to  Manning  :  "  March  17,  1800.  I  am  living 
in  a  continuous  feast.  Coleridge  has  been  with  me  for 
nigh  three  weeks,  and  the  more  I  see  of  him  in  the 
quotidian  undress  and  relaxation  of  mind,  the  more 
cause  I  see  to  love  him  and  believe  him  a  very  good 
man,  and  all  these  foolish  impressions  to  the  contrary 
fly  off  like  morning  slumbers.  He  is  uncommonly 
kind  and  friendly  to  me.  He  ferrets  me  day  and 

*"  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — TALFOURD. 
t  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


ECCENTRICITIES.  1 5  9 

night  to  do  something.  He  tends  me  amidst  all  his 
own  worrying  and  heart-oppressing  occupations,  as  a 
gardener  tends  his  young  tulip.  Marry,  come  up  !  what 
a  pretty  similitude  and  how  like  your  humble  servant ! 
He  has  dragged  me  to  the  brink  of  engaging  to  a 
newspaper,  and  has  suggested  to  me  the  forgery  of  a 
supposed  MS.  of  Burton  (the  anatomist  of  melan 
choly).  ...  If  I  can  pick  up  a  few  guineas  in  that 
way,  I  feel  they  will  be  most  refreshing,  bread  being 
so  dear  !  "  * 

Lamb  sent  on  a  number  of  Coleridge's  promiscuous 
chattels,  after  that  most  careless  individual  had  gone 
home  without  them,  and  wrote  :  "  Besides  the  papers 
and  books  I  sent  a  case  of  razors  and  a  shaving-box 
and  strop.  This  it  has  cost  me  a  severe  struggle  to 
part  with.  .  .  .  '  Bonaparte's  Letters,'  'Arthur  Young's 
Treatise  on  Corn,'  and  one  or  two  more  light-armed 
infantry,  I  have  torn  up  for  waste  paper." 

Manning  also  visited  Lamb  in  his  lonely  days, 
during  Mary's  absence.  They  smoked  and  chatted, 
and  dined,  and  I  should  say  wined,  together,  save  that 
Lamb  could  only  afford  whisky  and  the  cheaper 
liquors,  in  which  they  indulged  rather  freely.  Manning 
met  Lamb's  old  friend,  George  Dyer,  the  absent- 
minded  scholar,  whose  quaint  sayings  and  queerer 
doings  caused  them  much  merriment.  After  his 
return  Lamb  wrote  :  "  And  now,  when  shall  I  catch 
a  glimpse  of  your  honest  face  again  ? — your  pure,  dog 
matical,  skeptical  face  by  punch  light  ?  Oh  !  one 
glimpse  of  the  human  face  and  shake  of  the  human 
hand  is  better  than  whole  reams  of  this  cold,  thin 
correspondence.  .  .  .  George  Dyer,  that  good-natured 
*"  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 


160       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

heathen,  is  more  than  nine  months  gone  with  his  twin 
volumes  of  ode,  pastoral,  sonnet,  elegy,  Spenserian, 
Horatian,  Akensidish,  and  Masonic  verses  (Clio  prosper 
the  birth  !).  It  will  be  twelve  shillings  out  of  some 
body's  pocket.  .  .  .  Well,  God  put  it  in  the  hearts  of  the 
English  gentry  to  subscribe  by  shoals,  for  He  never  put 
a  kinder  heart  into  flesh  of  man  than  George  Dyer's.  .  .  . 
Dyer  says  :  "  Charles  Lloyd,  Charles  Lamb,  and  Wm. 
Wordsworth  in  later  days  have  struck  the  true  chord, 
of  poesy.  .  .  .  O  George,  George  !  with  a  head  uniformly 
wrong  and  a  heart  uniformly  right,  that  I  had  power 
and  might  equal  to  my  wishes  !  "  * 

He  told  Manning  of  Dyer's  weakness  for  buying 
every  book  he  heard  praised,  or  even  spoken  of,  although 
so  poor  he  could  ill  afford  the  luxury.  "  Would  I 
could  lock  him  up  from  all  access  of  new  ideas  !  .  .  . 
The  oftener  I  see  him,  the  more  deeply  I  admire  him. 
He  is  goodness  itself.  If  I  could  outlive  the  period  of 
his  death,  I  would  write  a  novel  on  purpose  to  make 
George  the  hero  ;  I  could  hit  him  off  to  a  hair."  * 

Poor  George  Dyer  was  so  forgetful  that  he  would 
wear  his  summer  clothes  in  winter,  or  put  salt  into  his 
tea,  and  snuff  into  his  soup,  and  commit  all  the  absurd 
ities  of  the  absent-minded  and  near-sighted.  At  one 
time  Lamb  heard  he  was  dying,  and  upon  visiting  him, 
found  he  had  been  living  solely  upon  water-gruel  for 
weeks,  and  being  in  the  last  stages  of  weakness,  had 
sent  farewells  to  his  nephews  and  friends.  Lamb  in 
sisted  upon  taking  the  starving  philosopher  home  with 
him,  and  having  prompted  the  physician,  had  a  heavy 
prescription  of  beefsteak  ordered,  which  he  had  pre 
viously  bought  and  prepared.  The  dying  philosopher 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


ECCENTRICITIES.  161 

was  so  stuffed  in  a  week,  that  he  went  home  plump  and 
blooming. 

About  this  time,  Amos  Cottle,  the  brother  of  Lamb's 
and  Coleridge's  friend,  J  :seph  Cottle,  died,  and  Charles 
Lamb  and  George  Dyer  paid  a  visit  of  condolence, 
which  Lamb  described  to  Coleridge  in  his  matchless 
way  :  "  Cottle  was  in  black,  and  his  younger  brother 
was  also  in  black,  and  everything  wore  an  aspect  suit 
able  to  the  respect  due  to  the  freshly  dead.  For  some 
time  after  our  entrance  nobody  spoke  till  George  mod 
estly  put  in  a  question  '  whether  "  Alfred  "  was  likely  to 
sell.'  This  was  Lethe  to  Cottle,  and  his  poor  face  wet 
with  tears,  and  his  kind  eyes  brightened  up  in  a  moment. 
Now  I  felt  it  my  cue  to  speak.  I  had  to  thank  him  for 
a  present  of  a  magnificent  copy,  and  had  promised  to 
send  him  my  remarks.  I  ventured  to  suggest  that  I 
perceived  a  considerable  improvement  in  his  first  book, 
since  the  state  in  which  he  first  read  it  to  me. 

"  Joseph,  who  had  sat  till  now  with  his  knees  cowering 
in  by  the  fire-place,  wheeled  about  with  great  difficulty 
of  body,  shifted  the  same  round  to  where  I  was  sitting, 
and  first  stationing  one  thigh  over  the  other,  which  is 
his  habit  in  sedentary  mood,  and  placidly  fixing  his 
benevolent  face  right  against  mine,  waited  my  obser 
vations.  At  that  moment  it  came  strongly  into  my  mind 
that  I  had  got  '  Uncle  Toby  '  before  me ;  he  looked  so 
kind  and  so  good.  I  could  not  say  an  unkind  thing  of 
*  Alfred.'  So  I  set  my  memory  to  work  to  recollect  the 
name  of  Alfred's  Queen,  and  with  some  adroitness 
recalled  the  well-known  sound  to  Cottle's  ears  of 
Alswitha.  At  that  moment  I  could  perceive  that  Cottle 
had  forgot  his  brother  was  so  lately  become  a  blessed 
spirit.  In  the  language  of  mathematicians,  the  author 
ii 


1 62       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

was  as  9 ;  the  brother,  as  i.  I  felt  my  cue,  and  in  pity 
beslobbered  *  Alfred '  with  most  unqualified  praise,  only 
qualifying  my  praise  by  the  occasional  politic  interposi 
tion  of  an  exception  taken  against  trivial  faults,  slips, 
and  human  imperfections,  which,  by  removing  the  ap 
pearance  of  insincerity,  did  but  in  truth  heighten  the 
relish.  Perhaps  I  might  have  spared  that  refinement,  for 
Joseph  was  in  a  mood  to  hope  and  believe  all  things. 
What  I  said  was  beautifully  supported  by.  ...  George  on 
my  right,  who  has  an  utter  incapacity  for  comprehend 
ing  that  there  can  &?  anything  bad  in  poetry.  All  poems 
are  good  poems  to  George,  all  men  we  fine  geniuses.  .  .  . 
The  author  repeatedly  declared  that  he  loved  nothing 
better  than  candid  criticism.  Was  I  a  candid  grey 
hound  now,  for  all  this,  or  did  I  do  right  ?  I  believe  I 
did.  The  effect  was  luscious  to  my  conscience.  For 
all  the  rest  of  the  evening  Amos  was  no  more  heard 
of,  till  George  revived  the  subject  by  inquiring  whether 
some  account  should  not  be  drawn  up  by  the  friends 
of  the  deceased,  to  be  inserted  in  '  Phillips'  Monthly 
Obituary,'  adding  that  Amos  was  estimable  both  for 
his  head  and  his  heart,  and  would  have  made  a  fine  poet 
if  he  had  lived !  .  .  . 

"  In  reality,  Cottle  imitates  Southey,  as  Rowe  did 
Shakespeare,  with  his  '  Good-morrow  to  ye,  good  Master 
Lieutenant.'  Instead  of  a  man,  a  woman,  a  daughter, 
he  constantly  writes,  'one  a  man,  one  a  woman,  and  one 
his  daughter '.  .  .  .  Instead  of  the  king,  the  hero,  he 
constantly  writes :  '  he  the  king,  he  the  hero  ;'  two 
flowers  of  rhetoric  borrowed  of  *  Joan.'  But  Mr.  Cottle 
soars  a  higher  pitch  !  !  When  he  is  original,  it  is  in  a 
most  original  way,  indeed.  His  terrific  scenes  are  in 
describable.  Serpents,  asps,  spiders,  ghosts,  headless 


ECCENTRICITIES.  163 

bodies,  staircases  made  of  nothing,  with  adders'  tongues 
for  bannisters  !  What  a  brain  he  must  have  !  he  puts 
as  many  plums  in  his  pudding  as  my  grandmother  used 
to  do.  ...  And  then  emerging  from  hell's  horrors  into 
light,  and  treading  on  pure  flats  of  this  earth — for 
twenty-three  books  together."  * 

And  so  Lamb  ambled  on,  with  his  keen  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  and  his  kindly  human  fun.  He  never 
thrust  a  sword  or  even  a  needle  into  a  tender  spot,  yet 
he  always  relished  absurdities,  even  though  he  saw 
them  with  the  eye  of  love.  The  good  qualities  he  de 
tected  in  his  friends  always  made  their  foibles  touch 
ing  or  lovable.  Such  is  the  alchemy  of  a  loving  heart 
and  nature  :  it  turns  all  baser  metals  into  its  own  affin 
ity — pure  gold. 

Poor  Lamb  had  a  lonely  time  while  Mary  was  at  the 
asylum.  He  wandered  to  his  friends'  houses  for  com 
pany — to  Godwin's,  and  to  Dyer's  untidy  Noah's  ark  ; 
to  the  theaters ;  and  took  his  daily  walk  down  the 
Strand,  watching  the  busy  crowds  with  unvarying  in 
terest.  He  wrote  Manning  of  an  amusing  experience 
at  a  sort  of  menagerie,  whose  placard  promised  sight 
of  a  rattlesnake  ten  feet  in  length  :  I  went  to  see  it  last 
night  by  candle-light.  We  were  ushered  into  a  room  very 
little  larger  than  ours  at  Pentonville.  A  man  and 
woman  and  four  boys  live  in  this  room,  joint  tenants 
with  nine  snakes,  most  of  them  such  as  no  remedy  has 
been  discovered  for  their  bites.  We  walked  into  the 
middle  which  is  formed  by  a  half-moon  of  wired  boxes 
— all  mansions  of  snakes  ;  whip  snakes,  thunder  snakes, 
pig-nose  snakes,  American  vipers,  and  this  monster. 
He  lies  curled  up  in  folds.  Immediately  a  stranger 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


1 64       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE 

entered  (for  he  is  used  to  the  family  and  sees  them 
play  at  cards  !)  he  set  up  a  rattle  like  a  watchman's  in 
London,  or  near  as  loud,  and  reared  up  a  head  from 
the  midst  of  those  folds,  like  a  toad,  and  shook  his 
head.  I  had  the  foolish  curiosity  to  strike  the  wires 
with  my  fingers,  and  the  devil  flew  at  me  with  his  toad 
mouth  wide  open ;  the  inside  of  his  mouth  is  quite 
white.  ...  It  frightened  me  so  much  that  I  did  not 
recover  my  voice  for  a  minute's  space.  ...  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  it.  He  absolutely  swelled  with  pas 
sion  to  the  bigness  of  a  large  .thigh.  I  could  not 
retreat  without  infringing  upon  another  box ;  and  just 
behind,  a  little  devil  not  an  inch  from  my  back  had  got 
his  nose  out  with  some  difficulty  and  pain  quite  through 
the  bars.  .  .  .  But  this  monster,  like  Aaron's  serpent, 
swallowed  up  the  impression  of  the  rest.  He  opened 
his  cursed  mouth,  when  he  made  at  me,  as  wide  as  his 
head  was  broad.  I  hallooed  out  quite  loud,  and  felt 
pains  all  over  my  body  from  fright."  * 

Charles  Lamb  had  a  great  scare,  and  considered  it 
tempting  Providence  to  visit  such  an  inferno,  and  pave 
the  way  for  a  certain  distemper  that  follows  lax  habits, 
in  which  he  too  frequently  indulged  during  Mary's 
many  absences.  His  health,  never  very  robust,  began 
to  suffer  more  and  more  from  constant  tobacco,  late 
hours,  and  evening  potations  to  drive  away  the  blue- 
devils  of  his  lonely  bachelor  life. 

Mary  returned,  and  the  little  home  grew  cheery 
again.  Manning  kept  urging  a  visit  to  Cambridge,  and 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  begged  him  to  visit  the 
Lake  country.  He  even  thought  of  a  visit  to  Coleridge 
before  Christmas,  and  wrote  to  Manning :  "  Perhaps  I 
*  "Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


ECCENTRICITIES.  1 6  5 

shall  be  able  to  take  Cambridge  in  my  way  going  or 
coming.  I  will  not  describe  to  you  the  expectations 
which  such  a  one  as  I,  pent  all  my  life  in  a  dirty  city, 
have  formed  of  a  tour  of  the  lakes  :  Coniston,  Gras- 
mere,  Ambleside,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge. 

"  I  hope  you  will  send  hills,  woods,  lakes,  mountains, 
to  the  devil.  I  will  not  eat  snipes  with  thee,  Thomas 
Manning.  My  taskmasters  have  denied  me  a  holiday 
season,  so  I  shall  transfer  my  expectations  back  to  my 
mistress.  .  .  . 

"  I  confess  I  am  not  romance-bit  about  Nature.  The 
earth  and  sea  and  sky  (when  all  is  said),  is  but  as  a 
house  to  dwell  in.  ...  Streets,  markets,  theaters, 
churches,  Covent  Gardens,  shops  sparkling  with  pretty 
faces  of  industrious  milliners,  neat  sempstresses,  ladies 
cheapening,  gentlemen  behind  counters  lying,  authors 
in  the  street  with  spectacles,  George  Dyers  (you  may 
know  them  by  their  gait),  lamps  lit  at  night,  pastry 
cooks,  and  silversmiths'  shops,  beautiful  Quakers  of 
Pentonville,  noise  of  coaches,  drowsy  cry  of  mechanics; 
watchmen  at  night,  with  bucks  reeling  home  drunk  ;  if 
you  happen  to  wake  at  midnight,  cries  of  'fire,' and 
'  stop  thief ; '  Inns  of  Court,  with  their  learned  air,  and 
halls  and  butteries,  just  like  Cambridge  colleges  ;  old 
book-stalls,  'Jeremy  Taylor,'  'Burton  on  Melancholy,' 
and  '  Religio  Medicis,'  on  every  stall  !  These  are  thy 
pleasures,  O  London  !  with  thy  many  sins.  .  .  .  For 
these  may  Keswick  and  her  giant  herd  go  hang  !  "  * 

By  such  monodies  the  quaint  cockney  tried  to  com 
fort  himself  for  his  disappointments  about  projected 
trips  which  were  doomed  to  remain  but  day-dreams. 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 


1 66       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND   COLERIDGE. 

To  Wordsworth  he  wrote :  "  With  you  and  your 
sister,  I  could  gang  anywhere,  but  I  am  afraid  whether 
I  shall  ever  be  able  to  afford  so  desperate  a  journey. 
Separate  from  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  I  don't 
care  much  if  I  never  see  a  mountain  in  my  life.  I  have 
passed  all  my  days  in  London,  until  I  have  formed  as 
many  and  intense  local  attachments  as  any  of  you 
mountaineers  can  have  done  with  dead  Nature.  The 
lighted  shops  of  the  Strand  and  Fleet  Street "  (lighted 
with  smoking  oil  lamps  in  those  days  !) ;  "  all  the  bustle 
and  wickedness  around  Covent  Garden  ;  the  sun  shin 
ing  upon  houses  and  pavements  ;  the  old  book-stalls 
and  fruit-shops,  coffee-houses,  steams  of  soups  from 
kitchens  ;  the  pantomimes,.— London  itself  a  panto 
mime  and  masquerade — all  these  things  work  them 
selves  into  my  mind  and  amuse  me  without  a  power  of 
satiating  me.  The  wonder  of  these  sights  impels  me 
into  night  walks  about  her  crowded  streets  ;  and  I  often 
shed  tears  in  the  motley  Strand,  from  the  fulness  of 
joy  at  so  much  life.  My  attachments  are  all  local, 
purely  local.  I  have  no  passion  (and  have  had  none 
since  I  was  in  love,  and  then  it  was  the  spurious  engen 
dering  of  poetry  and  books)  for  groves  and  valleys. 
The  rooms  where  I  was  born,  the  furniture  which  has 
been  before  my  eyes  all  my  life,  a  book-case  which  has 
followed  me  about  like  a  faithful  dog  (only  exceeding 
him  in  knowledge)  where  I  have  moved,  old  chairs,  old 
tables,  streets,  squares  where  I  have  sunned  myself, 
my  old  school — these  are  my  mistresses.  Have  I  not 
enough  without  your  mountains  ?  "  * 

What  a  mirror  of  his  quaint  fancies  and  likings  this 
quiet  London  scholar  held  up  to  his  friend,  the  poet 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


ECCENTRICITIES.  167 

of  Nature  !  How  Wordsworth  must  have  sniffed  and 
snorted  amid  his  admiring  circle  when  he  received  this 
confession  !  That  Lamb  meant  every  word  is  proved 
by  his  later  writings.  He  has  crystallized  just  these 
impressions  and  penchants  into  the  charming  descrip 
tions  of  his  essays.  Like  Dr.  Johnson,  he  adored  every 
nook  and  corner  of  smoky,  crowded,  fascinating  London, 
and  he  has  immortalized  her  Inns  of  Court,  her  chimney 
sweeps,  her  streets,  parks,  shops,  and  mysterious  old 
by-ways  better  than  Hogarth  or  Wilkie,  or  any  other 
brush  or  pen  artist  has  done. 

Lamb  thought  he  had  no  love  of  "  dead  nature," 
until  his  eyes  were  opened  ;  but  after  seeing  God's 
gigantic  creations,  his  soul  was  touched,  and  his  heart 
responded  to  nature's  charms  as  to  all  else  worthy  and 
beautiful.  He  was  beginning  to  scribble  his  fancies 
for  newspapers  and  magazines,  and  slowly  the  satire 
and  humor  of  the  unpretending  clerk  of  India  House 
won  admirers. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


NOT  LOOK  UPON  HIS  LIKE  AGAIN." 

Dear  Charles  !  Whilst  yet  thou  wert  a  babe,  I  ween 
That  pity  and  simplicity  stood  by 
And  promised  for  thee  that  thou  shouldst  renounce 
The  world's  low  cares  and  lying  vanities. 

COLERIDGE. 

Antiquity  !  Thou  wondrous  charm,  what  are  thou  ?  that  being 
nothing  art  everything !  When  thou  wert,  thou  wert  not  Anti 
quity!  then  thou  wert  nothing,  but  hadst  a  remoter  antiquity,  as 
thou  call'st  it,  to  look  back  to  with  blind  veneration. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

POOR  Mary  Lamb's  attacks  were  so  frequent  as  to 
attract  considerable  notice  in  their  neighborhood, 
and  they  were  often  requested  to  find  other  quar 
ters.  The  Gutches,  who  had  invited  them  to  lodge  with 
them,  found  the  notoriety  unpleasant,  and  the  stream 
of  visitors  who  now  found  their  way  to  Charles  Lamb's 
humble  dwelling  made  a  home  of  their  own  a  necessity. 
So,  on  Lady's  Day,  1801,  they  moved  to  rooms  in  the 
Inner  Temple,  near  their  old  home  in  the  Crown  Office 
Row.  Lamb  always  hovered  delightedly  round  the 
stately  gardens  and  halls  of  the  Temple.  He  loved 
the  plain  brick  rows  and  quadrangles,  whose  many 
staring  windows  looked  upon  these  gardens  and  halls. 
They  spoke  to  him  of  the  scholarly  side  of  life ; 


"ffE  WAS  A  MAN,  TAKE  HTM  ALL  IN"  ALL?  169 

and  he  reverenced  the  old  benchers  that  haunted  their 
gloomy  avenues,  and  liked  to  meet  the  scholars  and 
students  and  lawyers  who  frequented  these  precincts  of 
Court.  He  adored  the  old  law  libraries  and  gothic 
dining-halls,  with  their  polished  oaken  tables  and 
benches,  shining  as  mirrors  and  black  almost  as  ebony. 
He  reveled  in  the  stately  solemnity  of  the  old  Temple 
Church,  with  its  dome  and  circled  pillars,  where  lie  the 
remains  of  barristers,  Crusaders  and  Knights  Templars, 
with  records  on  their  brass  effigies  reaching  back  to 
the  middle  ages.  His  antiquarian  soul  loved  to  reach 
back  from  the  present  to  the  dim  past,  and  in  these 
precincts  was  an  unbroken  line  stretching  back  to 
where  the  real  and  the  ideal  or  legendary  meet,  in  the 
receding  vistas  of  time.  He  loved  the  quiet,  secluded 
gardens  whose  trees  and  flowers  and  velvet  turf  are 
such  a  contrast  to  the  grim,  dark  surroundings  ;  and 
like  many  others,  in  this  dear  old  spot,  he  liked  to 
stop  at  Goldsmith's  tomb,  just  outside  the  church,  and 
ponder  upon  the  gentle  poet  who  now  had  the  honors 
and  the  rewards  denied  his  busy  yet  pleasure-loving 
life  of  poverty  and  anxiety.  The  doves  and  pigeons 
flocking  around  the  gardens  of  the  Inner  and  Middle 
Temple  knew  Charles  Lamb,  and  hovered  round  him 
for  the  crumbs  he  often  gave  them  from  his  pockets, 
as  he  strolled  down  the  walks  to  the  Thames.  He 
loved  those  flower-bordered  walks,  and  the  sight  of  the 
spires  rising  over  the  river,  where  the  sails,  passing  and 
repassing,  and  the  turrets  and  towers  of  the  great 
Tower  of  London  in  the  blue  distance,  made  beautiful 
pictures  for  his  eye  and  fancy. 

Here,  in  the   Lambs'  rooms   in   the   Temple,  many 
friends  gathered  of  evenings   to  chat  and  smoke  and 


iyo      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

play  whist,  for  Charles  was  becoming  a  great  favorite 
with  a  certain  set  of  writers  and  thinkers.  He  who 
gave  such  reverence  to  genius  and  such  kindly  admira 
tion  to  all  that  was  worthy,  gained  the  esteem  and 
friendship  of  men  who  were  earnestly  working  and 
becoming  known  in  the  literature  and  politics  of  the 
day. 

George  Dyer,  the  author  of  "  History  of  Cambridge 
University ;  "  he  "  with  heart  of  gold,"  Wm.  Godwin, 
the  Necessarian,  who  wrote  the  "  Political  Justice  "  and 
"  Caleb  Williams,"  and  who  had  but  lately  married  and 
lost  the  brilliant  and  unfortunate  Mary  Wollstonecraft, 
were  frequent  guests  ;  Rickman,  who  afterwards  became 
clerk  of  the  House  of  Commons,  whom  Lamb  so 
sincerely  admired,  calling  him  the  "  finished  man," 
whose  memory  was  as  "the  brazen  serpent  to  the 
Israelites — I  shall  look  up  to  it  to  keep  me  honest  and 
upright ;  "  *  Thomas  Manning,  the  mathematician  and 
fellow  of  Cambridge ;  William  Hazlitt,  the  painter,  turned 
critic  and  essayist ; — all  were  his  intimate  and  loving 
friends.  They  consulted  him  about  their  writings, 
their  dramas  and  poems  ;  all  realized  his  exquisite  taste, 
and  no  friend  published  essay,  play,  or  poem  without 
begging  his  criticism.  Sometimes  these  gratuitous  tasks 
wearied  the  clerk  who  had  pored  over  books  and  figures 
all  day,  and  needed  his  evenings  for  rest.  But  he  was 
always  ready  to  lend  his  aid  ;  to  criticise,  to  encourage 
— to  ridicule,  perhaps  ;  but  with  so  tender  a  thrust,  that 
his  severe  censure  never  gave  a  pang.  He  used  the 
surgeon's  knife  with  the  anaesthetic  of  humor  and  gentle 
satire.  The  lonely  clerk  was  slowly  drawing  about  him 
a  circle  of  admirers  and  life-long  friends,  which  greatly 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


"HE  WAS  A  MAM,  TAKE  HIM  ALL  IAr  ALL."  171 

compensated  for  the  sordid  poverty  and  meager  com 
forts  of  his  life. 

Charles  Lloyd  had  settled  near  Grasmere,  on  the 
Rothay,  not  far  from  Wordsworth ;  and  these  Lake 
Poets  made  Lamb's  home  their  headquarters  when  in 
town,  sometimes  staying  with  him  and  sometimes  at 
an  adjacent  inn,  where  they  could  have  frequent  inter 
course. 

They  all  loved  the  quiet,  gentle  sister  whose  whole 
soul  was  wrapped  up  in  her  brother.  Mary  welcomed 
them  all  with  unfeigned  pleasure.  She  had  always 
loved  Samuel  Coleridge  as  a  younger  brother,  and  she 
watched  the  vicissitudes  of  his  life  with  tender  interest. 
She  reverenced  the  serious  Wordsworth,  and  there  was 
a  warm  bond  between  her  and  Dorothy.  Their  brothers 
were  their  idols,  and  they  never  wearied  discussing 
them  as  other  women  compare  lovers  or  husbands. 
She  was  more  shy  of  the  brilliant  Manning  ;  but  in  the 
long  years  of  his  close  intimacy  with  Charles  she 
learned  to  love  and  trust  him  ;  and  William  Hazlitt 
became  as  a  brother  to  both.  His  sharp  scalpel  spared 
this  gentle  pair,  in  the  days  when  he  probed  all  his 
contemporaries  to  the  very  quick.  Hazlitt  found  the 
weak  spot  in  every  man  ;  and  the  higher  and  more 
pretentious  they  were,  the  more  ruthlessly  did  he  lay 
bare  their  petty  foibles  or  deeper  vices.  But  in 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  he  saw  only  purity  and  kind 
liness. 

The  friends  would  gather  round  the  whist-table,  and 
cards  and  talk  would  alternate  in  most  free  and  easy 
fashion  ;  and  Mary  would  bring  in  a  dish  of  smoking 
baked  potatoes  and  a  cold  joint  and  pot  of  ale  ;  or 
sometimes  it  was  but  bread  and  cheese,  with  a  bowl 


172       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

of  steaming  punch  that  Charles  would  brew  with  great 
eclat.  Lamb's  nervous  temperament  felt  the  strain  of 
the  daily  desk  work  and  nightly  card  parties,  and  he 
determined  to  make  one  more  effort  to  break  away  from 
London,  and  visit  Coleridge  at  Keswick.  He  was  suc 
cessful  in  gaining  his  conge  from  the  India  House,  and 
without  even  waiting  to  notify  Coleridge,  he  and  Mary 
took  the  coach  for  Penrith,  and  after  a  couple  of  days 
along  the  beautiful  English  highways,  they  reached  Pen 
rith  on  the  third  day,  and  found  a  stage  just  leaving 
for  Keswick.  As  they  rode  through  the  glens  and  over 
the  wild  passes  at  sunset,  and  saw  the  long  lines  of 
peaks  and  domes,  gorgeous  in  purple  and  gold,  with 
the  lakes  lying  like  jewels  below,  the  city  pair  were 
filled  with  awe.  Skiddaw  and  its  giant  brothers,  as 
Coleridge  called  them,  loomed  golden  in  the  distance, 
and,  as  they  approached,  towered  high  above  the  purple 
chasms,  their  bald  crowns  peering  among  the  fleecy, 
golden  clouds. 

"  I  had  no  idea  of  the  grandeur  of  mountains,"  Charles 
said,  in  an  awe-struck  voice.  The  sparkle  in  Mary's 
eyes  told  of  her  delight. 

Along  the  breezy  heights,  bathed  in  the  purple  and 
rosy  haze,  they  climbed  ;  up  and  up,  with  woods  to  right 
and  left,  and  Bassenthwaite  and  Derwentwater  lying  in 
the  purple  vales,  like  flashing  gems,  until  they  reached 
the  pass  and  descended  into  the  pretty  vale  where 
Keswick  nestled  at  the  mountain's  foot. 

"  There  is  the  Greta,"  said  Lamb,  as  the  coach  drew 
up  at  the  old  inn.  "  We  can  just  follow  it  to  the  bridge, 
and  there  yonder  on  that  hill  is  G-Greta  Hall ;  I  know 
it  by  Coleridge's  w-word  pictures."  They  hastened  on, 
in  the  gathering  gloom  of  the  long  twilight,  and  burst 


"  HE  IVAS  A  MAN,   TAKE  HIM  ALL  IN  ALL."  173 

in  upon  the  delighted  Coleridge  sitting  before  his  cheer 
ful,  crackling  fire. 

Sarah  gave  them  as  hearty  a  greeting,  and  the  bird- 
lings  were  peeped  at  in  their  nest. 

"  I'm  converted  ;  turned  from  a  c-c-city  drone  to  one 
of  those  d-d-despised  tourists,  and  all  because  of  your 
sunsets  and  m-m-mountains.  I  was  happy  to  sit  by 
my  L-L-London  fireside,  and  1-1-listen  to  the  eternal 
roll  of  the  c-c-city  noises,  and  now,  like  P-P-Pandora's 
spirits,  I  can  never  again  be  entirely  content,  c-c-crowded 
into  the  smoky  levels  of  d-d-dirty  old  London.  I 
have  seen  Hel-Helvellyn  and  your  grand  old  Skiddaw, 
and  my  s-soul  has  leaped  out  to  meet  them — and  it 
w-won't  return.  It  has  e-e-eaten  the  forbidden  fruit," 
he  sighed.  "  But  why  this  organ  ?  It  is  big  enough 
f-for  a  minster,"  he  asked,  looking  at  the  large  organ 
at  one  end  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  it  is  harmless,"  laughed  Coleridge  ;  "  it  belongs 
to  the  house  and  helps  furnish  up,  and  it  never  speaks 
unless  Lloyd  comes  in,  and  then  it  plays  the  very  devil." 

Mary  insisted  upon  helping  Sarah  in  the  kitchen, 
knowing  well  what  sudden  visitors  entailed  upon  a  quiet 
household,  and  the  women  grew  confidential  and  cosy 
over  their  little  duties. 

Meanwhile  Lamb  looked  earnestly  at  Coleridge,  and 
noticed  the  haggard  pallor  which  had  followed  his  many 
attacks  of  rheumatism.  He  saw  that  his  friend  was 
changed;  he  was  less  open,  and  less  merry-hearted 
than  when  he  was  in  London. 

Little  Hartley  was  a  fine,  manly  fellow  of  five  years, 
quite  independent,  and  something  of  a  philosopher, 
for  he  must  always  have  the  reason  for  everything. 
Lamb's  stutter  puzzled  him  immensely.  "  Is  that  why 


174      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

he  is  named  Mr.  Lamb  ?  "  he  asked,  with  some  indis 
tinct  notion  of  the  bleat  of  a  young  sheep,  and  the 
eternal  fitness  of  things.  Derwent  was  a  tiny  roly-poly 
that  bobbed  around  in  his  yellow  gown  and  Lamb  in 
sisted  upon  calling  him  "  Stumpy  Canary,"  also  because 
of  the  "  eternal  fitness." 

Lamb  and  Coleridge  took  up  their  old  discussions, 
and  dropped  into  the  old,  friendly  intercourse,  and 
Mary  and  Sarah  were  equally  congenial. 

They  were  always  ready  for  the  beautiful  mountain 
rambles.  They  spent  long  days  climbing  the  exquisite 
shady  roads  to  the  lakes.  They  visited  Thirlmere  and 
Loughrigg  Tarn  with  their  bracken  and  heather  beds, 
and  gazed  upon  the  emerald  sweeps  of  mountain  and 
valley.  They  opened  their  picnic  baskets  at  the  mossy 
old  stone  at  Thirlmere,  under  the  shadow  of  the  mighty 
Helvellyn,  where  their  table  was  the  great  mossy  stone, 
decorated  with  sprigs  of  fern  and  ivy,  and  their  seats 
the  soft  purple  heather,  covering  all  the  mountain  sides. 
Fresh  cresses  with  the  dews  of  the  rill  upon  them  were 
a  dainty  salad,  and  poetic  thoughts  and  fancies  were 
sauce  and  spice  fit  for  the  gods.  Southey  and  Lloyd 
had  joined  them  upon  this  picnic,  and  Joseph  Cottle 
had  come  up  from  Bristol  for  a  short  visit ;  so  their 
party  was  complete,  excepting  that  Wordsworth  and 
Dorothy  were  off  on  a  pedestrian  tour,  their  last  ramble 
before  his  expected  marriage. 

During  the  day  Lamb  turned  to  Coleridge  and  said : 
"  I  must  have  that  exquisite  *  Christabel '  f-finished, 
Coleridge  ;  we  can  never  leave  that  gentle  creature 
under  the  s-spell  of  that  mysterious  visitor.  We  see 
the  effort  of  Christabel  to  free  herself  from  the  1  1-loath- 
some  influence,  and  her  father's  anger  at  his  beloved 


"HE   WAS  A  MAN,   TAKE  HIM  ALL  IN  ALLr  175 

child's  seeming  c-c-caprice.  You  leave  us  shuddering 
at  such  an  influence  over  the  young  girl  and  her  noble 
father,  b-b-but  how  does  it  end  ?  Does  the  s-s-serpent- 
eyed  charmer  capture  the  father  ?  " 

"  I  have  the  plot  completed  in  my  brain,"  said  Cole 
ridge.  "  You  don't  expect  me  to  give  it  away  to  you 
rival  poets  ?  "  he  asked,  rather  suspiciously.  "  Some  day 
you  or  Southey  will  be  putting  your  own  ending  to  my 
story." 

"  Then  why  not  f-f-finish  it  yourself,  Esteecee,  and 
p-p-prevent  the  possibility  of  such  d-desecration  ?  It  is 
so  full  of  wild  charm  that  even  the  Scotch  critics  could 
not  pluck  a  f-f-feather  from  its  b-beauty.  For  God's 
sake,  f-f-finish  it." 

Coleridge  looked  uneasy,  and  tried  to  change  the  sub 
ject,  but  Lloyd  and  Southey  added  their  entreaties. 

"  I  have  often  begged  him  to  complete  that  gem," 
said  Southey. 

Coleridge  flushed  angrily,  saying :  "  Come,  brother 
poets,  don't  be  so  ready  to  pick  my  bones.  Were  I  to 
finish  '  Christabel  '  without  the  inspiration,  it  would  be 
a  failure.  I  will  not  finish  it  hastily  ;  nor  will  I  give  a 
hint  of  its  unraveling,"  he  added,  impatiently,  glancing 
at  his  wife,  who  had  turned  quickly  to  Lamb  when  he 
broached  the  subject. 

She  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  but  seeing  his  frown, 
stopped  and  bit  her  lip,  and  the  talk  drifted  to  other 
subjects. 

Later,  Sarah  said  to  Lamb  :  "  I  have  often  begged 
him  to  finish  that  poem  ;  he  begins  so  much  work  and 
dreams  over  it,  and  seems  so  reluctant  to  finish  up,  that 
I  am  continually  begging  him  to  work  ;  "  and  she  sighed 
deeply.  "  He  is  growing  so  moody  and  fitful  in  these 


176       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

days,  Charles ;  there  seems  some  spell  upon  him  since 
that  German  tour.  I  sometimes  think  the  spell  of  the 
Lady  Geraldine  is  more  real  than  mere  poetic  fancy." 

"  I  notice  the  change  that  has  t-troubled  you,  Sarah ; 
but  with  his  t-t-temperament  you  must  not  urge  him  too 
st-strongly,  or  ocomplain  of  his  habits.  A  p-poet  is  a 
sensitive  creature,  enduring  his  own  fancies  and  dis 
couragements,  and  also  f-f-feeling  the  reflex  of  others' 
anxiety  or  c-c-criticism — even  when  n-n-not  expressed." 

"  But  where  must  a  wife's  duty  cease  ?  "  she  asked, 
anxiously.  "  If  a  wife  sees  her  husband  drifting,  drift 
ing  to  certain  ruin  of  mind  and  body,  can  she  bear  it 
and  be  still,  and  not  even  try  to  keep  him  safe  ?  " 

"  If  trying  and  urging  accomplished  anything  it 
w-w-would  be  d-different ;  but  did  you  ever  know  a  man 
1-1-listen  to  a  woman's  warnings  and — f-f-follow  them  ? " 

Sarah's  quick  tears  were  her  answer,  and  Mary 
coming  up,  the  subject  was  dropped,  and  the  two 
women  strolled  off  and  were  soon  immersed  in  the 
friendly  chat  that  women  love. 

The  friends  carved  their  initials  on  a  rock  project 
ing  over  the  lake,  and  Wordsworth  and  Dorothy  after 
wards  added  theirs,  and  the  memorial  stands  to  this 
day  as  a  token  of  the  intimacy  of  the  Lake  Poets. 

Day  after  day,  during  this  visit,  the  friends  walked 
to  the  different  lakes.  One  day  was  spent  in  enjoying 
Derwentwater  amidst  its  encircling  mountains,  and  the 
beautiful  Lodore  Falls.  The  varied  peaks  and  crests 
and  domes  of  the  mountains  charmed  Mary  and  Charles. 
The  blue  peaks  in  the  distance,  and  lilac  shoulders  of 
the  nearer  heights,  with  Lodore  plunging  down  their 
rocky  crags  and  tossing  over  its  pebbly  and  moss- 
bordered  bed,  until  it  dashes,  foaming,  into  the  lake, 


u  ffE  WAS  A  MAN,   TAKE  HIM  ALL  IN  ALL."  177 

were  a  new  experience  of  the  wonders  and  beauty  of 
nature. 

Charles  confessed  to  being  a  complete  convert  to 
their  mysterious  charm.  "  They  seem  like  a  giant  host 
awaiting  battle,  but  some  have  grown  bald  in  the  wait 
ing,  and  some  are  hoary  with  the  scraggy  growth  of 
centuries.  This  beautiful  fall  is  always  in  its  fresh, 
babbling  youth — a  perennial  spring,"  *  he  afterwards 
wrote,  in  referring  to  this  visit. 

They  wandered  amid  the  grave  old  yews  of  Borrow- 
dale,  with  Eagle's  Crag  and  Falcon's  Nest  hovering 
above  the  peaceful  vale,  and  after  a  few  more  delight 
ful  days  and  rambles,  the  Lambs  bade  farewell,  and 
took  the  coach  to  Grasmere  and  Rydal  Water  for  a 
peep  at  Wordsworth's  home. 

They  were  invited  by  the  Clarksons,  warm  friends 
of  the  Wordsworths  and  Coleridges,  living  at  Rydal 
Mount,  to  visit  them.  The  Clarksons  showed  them 
the  tiny  stone  house  at  Grasmere  that  Wordsworth 
had  taken  for  his  new  home  ;  they  strolled  amid  the 
little  stone  cottages  and  along  the  babbling  Rothay 
to  the  little  church  upon  its  banks.  The  Clarksons 
accompanied  them  down  the  beautiful  road,  shaded  by 
the  great  elms,  that  leads  to  Ambleside.  Together 
they  hunted  up  the  pretty  falls  that  dash  down  the 
three  ravines,  and  turn  the  wheel  of  the  picturesque 
old  mill.  The  drowsy,  quaint  old  towns  of  Ambleside 
and  Bowness  and  Windermere  had  more  charms  for 
Mary  than  for  her  brother.  The  old  gray  stone  cot 
tages,  the  ivy  growing  over  all  the  stone  walls  and 
fences,  and  the  roses  and  nasturtiums  creeping  over 
walls  and  into  windows,  were  a  new  delight  to  the  city 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb," — AINGER. 
12 


178       THE  DAYS  OF  LAM/J  A. YD  COLEKIDGE. 

woman,  who  knew  but  the  flowers  in  Covent  Garden 
market.  The  wealth  of  nasturtiums  and  pinks  and 
pansies  and  roses,  making  these  old  houses  like  bowers, 
was  most  fascinating  to  her. 

They  climbed  Orrest  Head,  winding  up  the  paths 
amid  the  scrub  oaks  and  heather,  and  gazed  rapturously 
upon  the  long,  irregular  Windermere,  with  its  many 
islands  and  peninsulas  and  its  lovely  villages,  with  a 
castle  here  and  there  peeping  from  the  thick  foliage. 

"  Ah !  what  a  p-picture  !  "  exclaimed  Charles,  as  they 
looked  from  the  lake  to  the  long  chains  of  mountains 
stretching  into  the  blue  distance,  with  the  Langdale 
Pikes  visible  here  as  everywhere  in  the  Lake  District. 
With  enthusiasm,  Charles  said,  "  What  a  creature  of 
t-turns  and  t-twists  among  these  mountains  is  Lake 
W-W7indermere  !  It  is  like  a  huge  c-c-centipede,  crawl 
ing  through  the  v-v-valley  !  " 

The  Lambs  started  to  explore  the  Wordsworth  sur 
roundings  for  their  friends'  sake  ;  but  Lamb  became  as 
"  romance-bit  "  as  even  Wordsworth  could  have  wished, 
and  he  acknowledged  upon  his  return  to  London  that 
the  streets  seemed  narrow  and  dark  after  "  the  humps 
and  dips  of  the  pretty  old  straggling  streets  in  the  West 
moreland  and  Cumberland  towns.  .  .  .  But  the  glory 
is  here  still,  the  life,  the  wine  of  existence,"  he  added. 
"  I  can  stand  on  tip-toe  and  see  all  the  sails  on  the 
Thames.  I  can  turn  the  corner  and  see  the  busy  stream 
of  life  and  vehicles  on  the  Strand  ;  the  lights,  the  shops, 
the  beautiful  old  chimes  of  St.  Paul's,  and  life  seems 
here  full  of  beauty  and  interest."  *• 

And  thus  the  double-dyed   cockney  settled  back  to 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


"HE   WAS  A  MAN,   TAKE  HIM  ALL  IN  ALL."  179 

his  haunts.  But  Mary  sighed  for  the  sweet  woods  and 
mountains,  and  found  her  windows  very  narrow  and 
dark. 

The  visits  of  Rickman,  and  of  George  Dyer,  with 
his  queer  stories,  were  not  such  a  delight  to  her  as  to 
Charles. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

LIFE'S  SHOALS  AND  QUICKSANDS. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet, 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet  ; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food.  .  .  . 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright, 
With  something  of  angelic  light. 

WORDSWORTH. 

DOROTHY  WORDSWORTH  had  written  several  times  to 
Mary,  regretting  their  absence  from  home  during  their 
friends'  visit  to  the  Lake  Country,  and  she  had  poured 
out  her  grief  at  the  thought  of  her  beloved  brother's 
approaching  marriage.  With  a  woman's  strong  sense 
of  possession,  she  resented  sharing  her  beloved  with 
another,  and  wrote  pathetic  letters  to  Mary  of  this 
danger  that  threatened  their  peace.  "  If  I  were  sure 
my  brother's  happiness  would  be  increased,  I  might  not 
so  dread  a  stranger  coming  under  our  roof.  We  have 
for  years  been  such  constant  companions,  I  know  not 
how  to  bear  the  constant  presence  of  another."  And 
the  other  devoted  sister  could  well  sympathize,  reflect- 


LIFE'S  SHOALS  AND  QUICKSANDS.  181 

ing  that  were  such  a  thing  to  happen  to  her,  she 
would  be  undone.  Mary  poured  out  her  tender  con 
dolences  and  counseled  her  friend  not  to  wean  her 
brother's  heart  by  opposition  and  complaint.  "  After 
the  first  few  weeks  you  will  fall  into  your  own  old  ways. 
You  and  William  are  so  entirely  congenial,  he  will  not 
easily  turn  from  the  old  to  the  new,  if  you  will  be 
patient,  dear  Dorothy.  The  habits  of  a  lifetime  are 
stronger  than  new  ties,  and  will  hold  after  the  honey 
moon  is  over."* 

How  pleasant  for  the  young  bride  who  was  to  leave 
home,  friends,  and  family  ties,  for  the  man  she  loved  ! 
In  her  secluded  home  at  picturesque  Penrith,  she  was 
building  fairy  castles  ;  dreaming  of  being  all  in  all  to 
the  "  noblest  poet  in  England."  She  would  nestle 
to  him  while  he  wrote  his  beautiful  poems ;  she  would 
have  his  fireside  cheery  and  bright,  and  his  home, 
though  modest,  should  be  a  fitting  poet's  trysting 
place,  and  she  would  be  his  ministering  angel. 

The  sister  was  scarcely  thought  of,  and  the  future 
was  for  herself  and  her  poet,  as  all  true-hearted  brides 
dream  of  the  life  ahead. 

Sometimes  the  rocks  and  quicksands  lie  further  off, 
and  smooth  sailing  belongs  to  the  first  happy  months. 

But  Mary  Hutchinson  had  a  lesson  of  abnegation 
and  self-effacement  to  learn  from  the  beginning.  The 
highest  duty  would  not  lie  in  the  line  of  the  highest 
pleasure,  but  directly  across  it.  She  could  not  be  first 
in  the  heart  that  had  leaned  so  long  upon  his  sister. 
Her  place  was — what  she  could  patiently,  gently,  but, 
oh  !  so  wearily,  win  !  She  might  have  thought,  she 
should  have  known,  of  his  dependence  upon  Dorothy, 
*"  Mary  Lamb." — ROSSETTI. 


1 82       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

and  so  have  shaped  her  dreams  and  hopes  upon  a  truer 
basis.  She  did  not  understand  ;  and  when  after  the  wed 
ding  she  reached  her  tiny  home  at  Grasmere,  where  the 
sister  had  everything  ready  to  welcome  the  bride,  with 
constrained  kindness,  the  shock  of  cruel  disappoint 
ments  descended  upon  her,  almost  on  the  evening  of 
her  wedding-day.  It  seemed  Dorothy's  fate  to  come  as 
an  interloper  between  the  men  she  most  cared  for  and 
their  wives.  Her  friendship  for  Coleridge,  who  so 
needed  help  and  comfort,  was  viewed  coldly  by  his 
wife.  Why  did  not  the  wife,  then,  better  under 
stand  the  poet-soul  beside  her?  And  now  her  own, 
her  very  own  William,  whose  every  thought  was  open  to 
her,  was  nearer  to  some  one  else,  some  one  he  scarcely 
knew.  She  was  a  brave  woman,  and  a  true  one  ;  she 
had  had  time  to  consider  this  marriage,  and  she  had 
taught  herself  to  resign  some  of  her  old  rights.  But  be 
tween  these  two  women  war  was  threatening,  and  such 
a  cruel  war  as  might  overthrow  the  happiness  of  their 
whole  empire.  They  both  saw  and  knew  it,  and,  like 
brave  women,  they  compromised. 

"  You  must  compromise,  Dorothy,"  wrote  Mary  Lamb. 
"  You  must  yield  self  for  William's  sake.  It  is  not 
easy,  but  it  is  noble,  because  it  conquers  your  bitterest 
enemy.  Self  has  such  just  rights.  It  is  so  plausible, 
so  powerful,  so  sensitive,  that  it  is  the  hardest  enemy  in 
the  world  to  overcome,  especially  as  it  always  holds 
our  inclinations  and  specious  arguments  of  duty  and 
right  on  its  own  side.  But  you  can  conquer  for  your 
brother's  sake." 

Through  the  winter,  the  little  home  was  snug  and 
pleasant  enough,  and  the  wife  would  take  her  sewing 
and  knitting  and  sit  close  to  her  husband's  side  while 


LIFE'S  SHOALS  AND  QUICKSANDS.  183 

he  wrote,  or  frequently  she  wrote  as  he  dictated,  and 
he  found  her  a  most  willing  listener,  who  reverenced 
his  beautiful  thoughts,  and  poured  her  adulation  upon 
his  already  self-satisfied  soul.  He  thawed  in  the  sun  of 
admiration  and  love,  as  most  men  do  ;  but  his  women 
spoiled  him,  by  making  him  an  oracle.  His  friends, 
Coleridge  and  Lamb,  looked  up  to  him  with  the  same 
reverence — Coleridge  as  to  a  beloved  master,  and  Lamb 
as  to  a  superior  being  who  must  be  honored  and  court 
ed.  Wordsworth  was  fond  of  Lamb,  but  looked  some 
what  questioningly  upon  the  constant  by-play  of  wit, 
and  the  irrepressible  interlarding  of  puns,  in  his  con 
versation.  Wordsworth's  serious  face  seldom  relaxed 
at  Lamb's  levity,  and  Charles  always  felt  somewhat 
apologetic  for  ruffling  the  surface  of  the  long  discus 
sions  upon  learned  subjects  and  poetry,  by  skimming 
his  pebbles  of  fun  into  the  midst.  They  were  second 
nature,  and  Lamb  could  no  more  help  punning,  and 
seeing  the  absurdity  which  ever  underlies  the  pathetic, 
than  he  could  help  breathing.  In  later  years,  when 
Tom  Hood  and  Lamb  became  intimates,  they  often 
compared  notes  upon  this  habit  of  "  squinting  at  life." 
Both  had  had  deep  sorrows  that  brought  grief  and  tears 
very  near  their  hearts  ;  yet  each  turned  the  sting  aside 
by  the  glittering  shield  of  humor. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

WEIGHED  IN  THE  BALANCE. 

Oh  !  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown 

By  nature  ;  men  endowed  with  highest  gifts, 

The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine, 

Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse.  .  . 

These  favored  beings, 

All  but  a  scattering  few,  live  out  their  time, 
Husbanding  that  which  they  possess  within, 
And  go  to  the  grave  unthought  of.     Strongest  minds 
Are  often  those  of  whom  the  noisy  world 
Hears  least ;  else,  surely  this  man  had  not  left 
His  graces  unrevealed  and  unproclaimed. 

WORDSWORTH. — Excursion. 

WHILST  Lamb  and  Wordsworth  were  cherishing  Cole 
ridge  more  deeply,  his  old  friend  Southey  was  growing 
away  from  him.  Southey  had  long  ago  thrown  aside 
the  youthful  vagaries  and  socialistic  dreams  that  had 
unsettled  him,  and  had  become  a  sober  family  man  of 
stanch  Church  proclivities  and  untiring  energy.  He 
plodded  steadily,  writing  books,  poems,  essays,  any 
thing  that  would  win  fame  and  money.  He  had 
assumed  the  care  of  Lovell's  widow  (his  wife's  sister), 
in  addition  to  his  own  growing  family,  and  steady  work 
was  needed  to  keep  the  pot  boiling. 

He  had  talked  and  written  with  disapproval  of  Cole 
ridge's  wandering  proclivities  ;  and  from  the  standpoint 
of  brother-in-law,  did  not  approve  the  vagaries  which  left 
his  home  and  wife  too  often  lonely  and  sad.  And 


WEIGHED  IN  THE  BALANCE.  185 

Coleridge  resented  the  good  advice  and  criticisms  of 
his  old  friend. 

How  different  they  all  were,  this  party  of  friends  and 
poets  ! 

Wordsworth  !  sober,  serious,  introspective,  and  rather 
self-centered,  yet  worshiping  nature,  and  poetry  as 
nature's  interpreter,  and  steadily  holding  his  exalted 
views  until  the  world  came  round  to  his  way  of  think 
ing.  Coleridge  !  varying  as  a  weather-cock,  warm 
hearted  but  over  sensitive,  and  inclined  to  indulge  his 
proclivities  by  right  of  genius,  yet  wanting  the  ballast 
of  steady  purpose.  He  clung  to  Wordsworth  as  to  a 
sheltering  rock.  Lamb  !  loving,  trusting,  generous,  self- 
denying,  living  a  daily  tragedy,  yet  wearing  the  mask  of 
comedy ;  true  as  steel  to  friends,  to  conscience,  and 
duty,  yet  allowing  too  great  liberty  to  the  few  indul 
gences  he  permitted  himself,  and  parading  his  faults 
with  penitent  humility.  And  Southey !  upright,  con 
scientious,  censorious,  and  strait-laced,  to  atone  to 
the  world  and  himself  for  the  latitude  of  his  boyish 
dreams  and  aspirations. 

Do  the  environments  make  the  man,  or  would  each 
have  been  modified  and  different  with  the  other's  sur 
roundings  ?  They  were  all  talented  and  thoughtful, 
with  the  fear  of  God  in  their  hearts.  Would  Charles 
Lamb  have  sobered  into  a  Wordsworth  with  the  strain 
of  care  and  servile  toil  removed  ?  Would  he  have  had 
a  taste  for  the  oddities  and  pleasantries  of  the  "  seamy 
side "  of  life,  as  he  describes  them  in  his  charming 
"  Essays  of  Elia  "  ?  Would  Southey  have  remained  a 
visionary  and  socialist  had  he  been  blest  with  means  to 
gratify  his  early  tastes  ?  And  Coleridge,  the  most 
brilliant  and  scholarly  of  all,  if  he  had  accepted  the 


1 86       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

editorship  of  the  "  Post  "  and  "  Courier,"  with  an  ample 
fortune,  and  the  regular  requirements  of  the  office, 
would  his  nobler  possibilities  have  developed  as  they 
ought  to  have  done  ?  And  would  the  fatal  habit,  now 
already,  when  he  was  but  thirty  years  of  age,  beginning 
to  close  around  him,  like  the  arms  of  the  devil-fish  upon 
its  prey,  have  left  him  a  free  man  ?  Who  knows  ? 

It  is  but  the  story  of  every  life  and  every  day ;  this 
might-have-been  romance  is  but  weaving  circumstances 
around  possibilities,  and  guiding  the  thread  to  a  desired 
pattern. 

The  undesired  patterns  of  real  life  have  more  of 
romance  than  the  wildest  story-teller  dreams  of  telling, 
only  they  are  lived  out  so  slowly  that  we  lose  the 
thread,  and  miss  seeing  the  pattern.  A  part  is  faded 
ere  all  be  completed. 

Wordsworth,  brave  in  his  love  of  right,  and  trusting 
to  his  inner  voice,  kept  steadily  on  writing  in  his  own 
style  and  waiting  for  the  eleven  stubborn  men  of  the 
critical  juries  to  come  to  his  way  of  thinking. 

The  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  started  in  1802  by  Sydney 
Smith,  Francis  Jeffrey,  and  Henry  Brougham,  sneered 
at  the  love  of  nature,  and  the  rhapsodies  of  its  inter 
preters.  The  editors,  men  of  active  life  and  practical 
temperament,  could  not  at  all  comprehend  the  introspec 
tion  of  a  poetic  mind  like  Wordsworth's.  They  pro 
nounced  his  poems  "  trash,"  "  balderdash  ;  "  because 
they  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  the  practical,  that 
excluded  the  very  idea  of  inspiration  from  woods  and 
glens,  .from  the  air  we  breathe,  and  the  sun  above  us. 
A  keen,  critical  humorist  like  Sydney  Smith,  probing 
the  great  questions  of  the  day  and  of  life  ;  a  lawyer  like 
Jeffrey,  who  must  see  a  wherefore  for  every  why,  and  a 


WEIGHED  IN  THE  BALANCE.  187 

motive  for  each  result,  could  not  comprehend  the 
Quakerism  of  Wordsworth's  poetic  inspirations.  And 
to  Brougham,  who  must  ever  be  setting  the  world  to 
rights,  the  life  of  Wordsworth's  "  rustics  "  was  stagnation 
worse  than  death. 

Coleridge  was  but  a  dreamer,  and  his  fancies  were 
meaningless  dreams  to  these  practical  Scotchmen. 
Wherefore  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  always  held  these 
romance  poets  in  contempt,  and  denied  them  any  place 
among  poets.  And  now  when  a  new  edition  of  "  Lyrical 
Ballads  "  and  the  "  Excursion  "  appeared,  they  were 
sneered  at  as  "  child's  play "  and  absurd  nonsense. 
Wordsworth  was  hurt  at  their  blindness  and  ruthless 
bitterness  ;  but  he  knew  he  was  right  and  kept  on  in 
his  own  way. 

Coleridge,  who  had  won  some  praise  and  applause, 
was  cut  to  the  quick  by  the  sneers  of  the  "  Edinburgh 
Review "  and  the  "  Monthly  Magazine,"  and  was 
utterly  discouraged. 

Long  years  afterwards,  when  the  "  London  Maga 
zine  "  and  "  Blackwood's  "  had  awakened  to  the  fact 
that  the  Lake  dreamers  were  poets  who  should  speak 
truths  to  the  world,  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  main 
tained  a  discreet  silence,  but  Charles  Lamb  and  others 
long  remembered  its  early  persecutions. 

After  Lamb's  return  from  the  Lake  Country,  his 
friends  gathered  about  him  so  constantly  that  he  ap 
pointed  Wednesday  evenings  for  them  to  meet  at  his 
house  for  their  cards  and  talk.  Around  the  old  mahog 
any  table  were  grouped  Win.  Hazlitt,  the  essayist 
and  critic  ;  Wm.  Godwin,  the  novelist  and  philosopher, 
who  usually  fell  asleep  after  he  had  partaken  heartily  of 
the  hospitable  cheer  and  the  steaming  punch;  George 


1 88      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Dyer,  Rickman,  the  Burneys,  father  and  son,  and  a 
constantly  increasing  circle  who  spread  the  fame  of 
the  "  Round  Table,"  as  they  called  it,  far  and  near. 

The  late  hours,  and  smoking,  and,  alas  !  drinking  at 
these  pleasant  gatherings  were  telling  upon  Lamb,  and 
therefore  upon  Mary.  Her  "  spells  "  were  more  frequent, 
and  Lamb,  after  a  night's  carousing,  was  nervous  and 
racked  with  regret  and  self-abasement.  He  watched 
Mary  so  anxiously,  that  his  terror  and  uneasiness 
fretted  her,  and  both  grew  sleepless  and  wretched. 
He  determined  to  give  up  smoking,  and  dallying  with 
the  thought,  and  dreading  to  break  with  his  old  mis 
tress,  he  wrote  to  Coleridge  :  * 

"What  do  you  think  of  smoking?  I  want  your 
sober,  average,  noon  opinion  of  it.  Morning  is  a  girl, 
and  can't  smoke.  She  is  no  evidence,  one  way  or  the 
other.  And  Night  is  so  indecently  bought  over  that 
he  can't  be  a  very  upright  judge.  Ugh  !  the  truth  is 
that  one  pipe  is  wholesome,  two  pipes  toothsome, 
three  pipes  noisome,  four  pipes  fulsome,  five  pipes 
loathsome,  and  that's  the  sum  on  it. 

"  But  that  is  deciding  rather  upon  rhyme  than 
reason.  When  shall  we  two  smoke  again  ?  Last 
night  I  had  been  in  a  sad  quandary  of  spirits,  in  what 
they  call  the  evening ;  but  a  pipe  and  some  generous 
port,  and  '  King  Lear '  (being  alone)  had  their  effect 
as  solacers  :  I  went  to  bed — pot  valiant."  * 

He  wrote  Coleridge  also  that  his  "  poem,  '  Man  of 
Destiny,'  being  a  '  Salutation '  poem,  had  the  mark  of 
the  beast  (tobacco)  upon  it." 

For  some  time  he  gave  up  tobacco  entirely,  and  was 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


WEIGHED  IN  THE  BALANCE.  189 

better  for  the  abstinence  ;  but  after  Mary  left  for  the 
asylum  again,  he  comforted  himself  with  his  old  enemy, 
and  for  years  it  was  war  to  the  knife  between  him 
and  his  tempter,  sometimes  the  one  conquering,  and 
sometimes  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

UPHILL  AND  DOWNHILL. 

Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fixed 
Its  first  domestic  loves ;  and  hence  through  life 
Chasing  chance-started  friendships.     A  brief  while 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  life's  pelting  ills.  .  .  . 

And  some,  most  false, 
False  and  fair-foliaged  as  the  manchineel, 
Have  tempted  me  to  slumber  in  their  shade 
E'en  'mid  the  storm  :  then  breathing  subtlest  damps, 
Mixed  their  own  venom  with  the  rain  from  heaven, 
That  I  woke  poisoned. 

COLERIDGE. 

* 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  had  not  been  married  a  year 
when  the  old  spirit  of  roaming  rose  strong  in  the 
hearts  of  the  brother  and  sister.  The  young  wife  saw 
the  restlessness  and  heard  William  and  Dorothy  dis 
cussing  their  old  tramps,  and  longing  for  another.  So 
she  knew  her  test  was  coming.  She  was  not  able  to 
stand  the  fatigues  and  excitement  of  long  walks,  and 
being  a  brave  woman,  she  looked  the  thing  straight  in 
the  face.  She  knew  that  the  pair  were  accustomed  to 
these  trips,  and  she  also  knew  she  must  yield  to  her 
husband's  wishes  in  the  matter. 

She  had  gradually  assumed  more  of  a  wife's  position 
in  their  home,  and  she  was  determined  that  her  poet's 
happiness .  should  be  her  first  duty  and  pleasure.  So 


UPHILL  AND  DOWNHILL.  191 

she  smilingly  bade  them  "  God  speed,"  and  kept  her 
tears  for  her  own  room. 

An  old  book  says  :  "  He  that  conquereth  his  spirit 
is  greater  than  he  that  taketh  a  city,"  and  she  con 
quered,  after  a  grievous  struggle. 

Coleridge  had  also  grown  restless  again,  and  was 
sick  and  miserable,  and  he  determined  to  accompany 
the  Wordsworths. 

Sarah  had  grown  accustomed  to  her  husband's  fre 
quent  absences,  and  had  ceased  to  struggle  for  her 
old  hold  upon  his  heart.  She  saw  him  drifting,  drift 
ing  from  home,  paying  long  visits  to  this  friend  and 
that,  and  only  coming  again  fitfully,  until  her  home-life 
was  but  a  troubled  dream.  The  sweet  companionship 
of  early  days  had  subsided  into  mere  surface-life.  Her 
husband's  deeper  thoughts  and  feelings  were  reserved 
for  congenial  friends.  He  was  a  loving  husband  and 
father,  yet  all  his  sympathies  lay  beyond  home.  She, 
whose  whole  life  and  heart  were  bound  up  in  him,  grew 
morose  from  the  strain  of  trying  to  hold  his  heart,  and 
to  condone  his  growing  restlessness.  Sarah  had  always 
envied  Dorothy  Wordsworth  her  sympathy  and  com 
radeship  with  the  husband  she  never  could  wholly  win. 
All  Coleridge's  pleasantest  excursions  were  shared 
by  these  friends.  So,  with  sighs  and  many  tears,  she 
saw  him  depart  with  the  Wordsworths  for  a  long  sum 
mer's  expedition.  She  wondered  how  Mary  Words 
worth  liked  her  new  role  of  widowhood,  and  if  these 
long  absences  caused  her  tears  and  anxiety ;  and  not 
being  a  brave  woman,  she  wasted  her  emotions  upon 
the  inevitable.  And  therein  lay  the  difference  between 
the  influences  of  the  two  homes. 

The  poets  visited  Edinburgh,  and  looked  with  delight 


1 92       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

upon  the  stately  Greek  columns  and  porticoes  of  that 
classic  city.  Coleridge  was  not  at  all  enthusiastic 
about  fine  architecture,  and,  whilst  discussing  some 
cherished  idea,  often  passed  a  noble  cathedral,  merely 
seeing  a  great  church.  But  even  he  was  interested  in 
the  old  Canongate,  with  its  narrow  streets,  crooked 
old  houses,  blind  lanes,  and  antediluvian  signs  swing 
ing  from  still  more  antediluvian  buildings.  John 
Knox's  house,  with  its  queer  clerestory  and  quaint  old 
windows,  appealed  to  him  as  the  shell  that  had  enclosed 
so  rich  a  kernel ;  but  Wordsworth  and  Dorothy  gloated 
over  the  city's  quaint  picturesqueness,  and  enjoyed  to 
the  full  beautiful  Holyrood,  with  its  smooth,  round 
pinnacles,  and  the  great,  rugged  Castle  towering 
aloft  over  the  city.  Where  Wordsworth  and  Dorothy 
saw  grandeur  or  beauty,  Coleridge  saw  the  march  of 
centuries,  and  the  panorama  of  changing  dynasties; 
and  his  eloquence  expanded  into  wonderful  beauty  and 
charm. 

The  poets  hunted  up  Burns's  grave,  visited  his  old 
home  and  youthful  scenes  in  Ayrshire,  and  found  the 
long,  low  cottage  of  his  birth,  near  Ayr,  and  the 
"  Brig  o'  Doon,"  where  "  Tarn  O'  Shanter  "  took  his 
wild  ride,  pursued  by  the  witches  on  "  Hallowe'en." 
They  reached  old  Stirling  Castle,  with  its  glorious 
panorama  of  the  half  of  Scotland,  and  started  to 
walk  through  the  Trosachs'  hermit  shades  and  fairy 
passes,  amid  the  purple,  heather-clad  mountains,  around 
Loch  Katrine.  Ben  Ann  and  Ben  Venue  were  almost 
as  fine  as  their  own  Skiddaw  and  Helvellyn  ;  and  the 
new  novelist,  whose  tales  and  poems  were  becoming 
the  world's  talk,  had  chosen  this  beautiful  Loch  Kat 
rine  for  his  scenes.  The  "Waverley  Novels"  were 


UPHILL  AND  DOWNHILL.  193 

peopling  these  woods  and  lakes  with  romance,  and  the 
poets  had  many  discussions  about  the  books  whose 
author  was  yet  unknown.  But  a  miserable  Scotch  mist 
followed  them  from  Edinburgh,  and  the  chilling  drizzle 
penetrated  their  clothing.  Coleridge's  rheumatism  made 
walking  painful,  and  the  cold,  gray  atmosphere  pene 
trated  beyond  the  skin  and  bones  to  his  very  spirit. 
He  was  moody  and  melancholy,  and  neither  Words 
worth  nor  Dorothy  could  rouse  him  to  the  cheerfulness 
usual  when  with  them.  At  last  he  left  them,  and  went 
by  coach  back  to  Keswick,  where  he  was  ill  for  several 
months,  suffering  terribly  from  neuralgia,  rheumatism, 
and  the  many  forms  of  torture  belonging  to  his  tem 
perament,  and  aggravated  by  this  exposure  and  foul 
weather.  Tenderly  did  Sarah  nurse  him  through  these 
weary  months.  He  could  not  use  his  stiffened  and 
swollen  hands  to  write,  and  the  weeks  dragged  wearily 
by. 

Some  friend  recommended  the  "  Kendal  black 
drop,"  whose  principal  ingredient  was  opium,  that 
soothed  his  pain  like  magic.  Again  and  again,  when 
suffering,  he  at  once  found  relief  from  this  wonderful 
medicine,  until  he  kept  it  with  him  continually.  He 
did  not  realize  the  insidious  poison  in  the  seemingly 
harmless  narcotic.  It  was  sweet  to  find  rest  and  wild, 
beautiful  dreams,  after  paroxysms  of  pain.  His  fears 
and  discouragements  were  soothed  away  by  lovely 
visions  ;  and  he  little  realized  the  foul  tempter  hid  in 
this  angel's  disguise.  He  little  dreamed  of  the  iron 
fetters  it  was  riveting  around  soul  and  body.  He 
welcomed  the  poetic  fancies  it  called  up  ;  but  the  fiend 
had  tied  his  hands  ere  he  could  weave  those  visions 
into  form. 

13 


194       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Sarah's  alarm  was  becoming  unbearable  as  she  saw 
the  fine  powers  so  held  in  abeyance.  Her  sister,  Edith 
Southey,  had  lost  her  only  child  early  in  the  summer, 
and  had  fled  to  Sarah  for  comfort.  She  was  there 
during  Coleridge's  illness,  and  helped  to  nurse  and 
cheer  him.  Southey  decided  to  leave  Bristol  and  share 
Greta  Hall  with  the  Coleridges.  He  saw  that  Coleridge 
was  too  ill  to  do  the  writing  necessary  to  maintain 
his  family,  and  Sarah  gladly  welcomed  their  board  to 
help  pay  her  bills.  Later  they  moved  their  household 
effects  to  the  unoccupied  rooms  and  shared  the  rent, 
and  thus,  for  years,  the  two  families  lived  together  at 
Greta  Hall,  which  Southey  never  again  left.  Southey 
saw,  with  stern  disapproval,  the  danger  of  Coleridge's 
tampering  with  the  fatal  drug.  He  begged  Coleridge  to 
give  it  up  ;  but  constant  rheumatism  and  neuralgia  were 
a  good  excuse,  and  opium,  once  established  as  a  habit, 
is  a  monster  only  shaken  off  with  untold  sufferings  of 
mind  and  body.  Alcohol  is  a  monster  that  admits  no 
escape  from  slavery  but  by  incessant  struggle  ;  but 
opium  makes  freedom  almost  impossible. 

After  some  time  Coleridge  improved  in  health  and 
was  able  to  resume  his  journalism  ;  but  the  new  enemy 
forbade  the  steady  work  of  early  days,  and  the  lassitude 
fretted  him.  He  went  to  see  the  Wedgwoods  and 
Joseph  Cottle  at  Stowey,  and  then  paid  a  prolonged 
visit  to  his  friends,  the  Lambs. 

They  fell  at  once  into  the  old  congeniality,  and  Cole 
ridge's  brilliant  conversation  charmed  the  literary  men 
who  were  now  Lamb's  frequent  visitors.  Coleridge  was 
a  star  of  the  first  magnitude  among  the  brilliant  galaxy 
around  the  table  on  Wednesday  evenings.  Philosophy, 
poetry,  religion,  ethics,  politics,  were  equally  fascinating 


UPHILL  AND  DOWNHILL.  195 

when  handled  by  Coleridge.  He  and  Lamb  were  both 
writing  for  the  papers  and  some  of  the  magazines. 
Journalism,  now  considered  an  honor,  as  paving  the 
way  to  favor  and  position,  in  the  eighteenth  century  and 
even  early  in  our  nineteenth  century,  was  a  mere  trade. 
Contributors  to  the  reviews  and  dailies  were  not  favored 
at  social  entertainments.  Francis  Jeffrey  and  Brougham 
being  writers  and  journalists,  and  having  their  own 
social  positions,  did  much  to  overthrow  this  absurd 
English  prejudice.  One  would  scarcely  expect  brains 
to  be  above  par  in  those  days,  when  a  Beau  Brummel 
ruled  the  fashions  and  dictated  style  to  court  and 
nobility.  He  was  at  the  height  of  his  glory  and  of  his 
intimacy  with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  was  the  glass 
of  fashion  and  the  mold  of  form  as  he  strutted 
superciliously  along  Piccadilly  in  his  blue  coat,  buff 
waistcoat,  and  Hessian  boots,  all  fitting  the  dapper 
figure  like  wax.  Had  he  worn  scarlet  or  emerald  tights, 
the  dandies  of  the  day  would  have  followed  his  lead 
as  they  did  the  tip  of  his  hat,  cocked  to  the  right,  and 
the  height  of  his  bands  and  neckerchiefs,  which  must 
reach  the  ears. 

Most  of  the  Lambs'  circle  were  writers — essayists, 
journalists,  critics,  novelists,  philosophers — and  their 
fellowship  was  close  and  intimate,  with  their  witty 
host  ever  stirring  their  mirth,  and  guiding  the  topics 
away  from  dangerous  ground.  It  was  a  trying  time 
politically.  The  cajoleries  of  the  tyrant  Bonaparte 
blinded  many  to  his  real  intentions  ;  and  discussions 
about  settling  his  ambitious  designs  or  accepting  his 
overtures  caused  exciting  differences,  not  only  in  Par 
liament,  but  in  every  class  of  society.  Lamb's  friends 


196       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

were  principally  Whigs ;  but  when  Fox  and  Grenville 
so  bitterly  opposed  war,  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth 
and  many  of  the  stanchest  Whigs  upheld  Pitt's  policy, 
and,  as  the  world  knows,  he  staked  his  reputation 
upon  the  necessity  of  subduing  and  subjugating  the 
"  little  Corsican." 

This  and  the  "  Reform  Bill  "  and  the  "  Poor  Laws,"  in 
which  Rickman  and  Thomas  Poole  were  so  interested, 
became  such  exciting  subjects  that  Lamb  made  a  rule 
of  excluding  politics  from  his  "  Round  Table,"  and  it 
required  all  his  tact  and  bonhomie  to  keep  those 
pleasant  evenings  free  from  the  all-absorbing  topics, 
especially  after  the  punch-bowl  loosened  tongues  and 
heated  imaginations. 

Alas  for  the  mischief  of  those  frequent  convivial 
evenings  with  good-fellowship,  tobacco,  and  whisky  ! 
It  was  a  day  of  gambling  and  drinking.  No  gathering 
was  complete  without  cards  for  money,  and  no  hospi 
tality  was  considered  passable  without  liquors  to  excess. 
So  universal  was  the  custom,  that  "  card-money  "  was 
always  placed  upon  the  snuffers-tray  by  the  guests,  until 
the  constant  abuse  of  the  custom  caused  its  downfall. 

Thackeray  has  pictured  the  card  parties  and  social 
features  of  those  days  among  the  court  circle.  The 
coteries  of  Holland  House  and  Gore  House,  it  is  true, 
rose  to  a  more  intellectual  plane  than  the  universal 
card  routs.  Charles  Lamb's  coterie  stood  between 
the  gambling  parties  and  the  salons,  combining  cards 
and  conversation,  with  a  decided  predominance  of  the 
latter. 

If  opium  was  wrecking  Coleridge's  great  powers, 
tobacco  and  a  too  free  use  of  liquor  were  making  Lamb 
nervous  and  irritable,  and  each  was  inwardly  ashamed 


UPHILL  AND  DOWNHILL.  197 

of  his  thralldom.  Lamb  complained  freely  and  fre 
quently  of  his  tyrants.  He  ridiculed  them  and  himself 
with  his  own  matchless  humor,  and  said  more  severe 
things  of  his  own  weakness  than  any  one  else  had  the 
heart  to  say  of  the  gentle  wag. 

But  Coleridge  was  too  proud  to  speak  of  his  con 
scious  deterioration.  He  could  never  bear  a  hint  of  it, 
resenting  a  suspicion  of  it,  especially  from  his  wife  or 
Southey. 

Only  to  Mary  Lamb  would  he  speak  of  his  growing 
infirmity.  Her  own  trouble  gave  her  the  right  to  com 
fort  a  fellow-sufferer,  and  she  pitied  without  criticising. 
Her  Madonna-face,  full  of  pity  and  sympathy,  soothed 
where  another  would  but  wound. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DRIFTING. 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,   unimpassioned  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear." 

COLERIDGE. — Ode  to  Dejection. 

DESPITE  the  efforts  of  Pitt  and  the  War  Party,  the 
successes  of  the  English  arms,  and  the  Whig  element, 
backed  by  popular  acclamation,  decided  upon  the  peace 
of  Amiens  in  1802.  Great  was  the  rejoicing  throughout 
England  at  the  close  of  a  war  which  had  so  impoverished 
the  masses.  Taxation  for  the  war  had  become  a  con 
stantly  increasing  burden,  and  bread  and  wheat  were 
at  fabulous  prices.  Lloyd's  and  White's  coffee-houses 
were  besieged  by  rejoicing  crowds  for  the  latest  bul 
letins;  and  parades  and  processions  with  banners  and 
placards  by  day,  and  lanterns  and  torches  by  night, 
made  London  festal.  The  gorgeous  illumination,  when 
all  London  blazed  with  tallow  dips  in  its  windows,  and 
lamps  and  lanterns  of  prodigious  size  and  smoking 
capacity,  showed  the  best  intention  of  throwing  all 
the  light  upon  the  subject  which  could  be  got  out  of 
the  means  then  known. 

The  Holland  House  coterie  were  radiant  with  their 
party's  success,  and  powdered  dames  and  stately  lords, 
with  powdered  hair  and  queues,  mingled  with  the  rab- 


DRIFTING.  199 

ble  in  witnessing  the  illuminations  and  rejoicings.  The 
wax  tapers  of  Piccadilly  and  Mayfair  scarcely  outshone 
the  tallow  dips  ;  and  the  enthusiasm  of  party  conquest 
was  equal  to  the  rejoicing  over  the  promised  return  to 
cheap  bread  and  lowej  taxation. 

In  the  Lamb  coterie,  opinions  were  greatly  divided 
as  to  the  expediency  of  this  peace  :  whether  it  would 
be  outweighed  by  allowing  the  aggressive  First  Consul 
time  to  strengthen  his  outposts  unmolested.  It  required 
all  of  Lamb's  tact  and  geniality  to  keep  the  hot  dis 
cussions  from  becoming  personal  wrangles. 

The  suffering  and  poverty  that  Coleridge  saw  around 
him  in  the  thronged  Whitechapel  districts,  where  the 
poor  huddle  together  like  herds  of  starving  beasts, 
ready  to  prey  upon  anything  and  everything  in  reach, 
shocked  and  depressed  him.  He  talked  of  it  and 
grieved  over  it,  until  Thomas  Poole,  himself  almost  a 
fanatic  upon  the  subject  of  the  Poor  Laws,  rebuked 
him. 

"  Why  should  you  rave  so  over  the  poverty  of  the 
masses  ?  What  have  you  to  do  with  regulating  the 
expenditures  of  the  rich  or  the  penury  of  the  poor  and 
idle  ? " 

Coleridge's  great  eyes  blazed  with  passion  and  pain 
as  he  turned  to  Poole  with : 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  it  ?  What  are  my  voice 
and  talents  given  me  for  if  not  to  serve  the  needy  ?  Do 
I  not  know  the  tortures  of  working,  yes,  slaving  for  the 
wretched  uncertainty  of  daily  bread  ?  Do  not  I  see 
my  own  family  needing  life's  necessaries,  whilst  these 
London  aristocrats'  '  Tear  Drips'  and  their  '  Soupirs ' 
pour  into  their  abundance  three  times  the  sum  we  poor 
men  get  for  work  ?  Do  I  not  know  the  bitterness 


200       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

of  serving — waiting  a  chance  for  an  honest  article  to 
receive  a  grudging  pittance,  whilst  these  pampered 
money-bags  pocket  their  hundreds  of  pounds  for  some 
simpering  or  wailing  trash  they  call  '  poetry  '  ?  I  tell 
you  there  is  no  place  for  the  poor.  Look  at  the  hun 
dreds  of  human  animals  crowded  into  Hounsditch  in 
filth  and  want,  until  they  become  murderers,  adulterers, 
and  mere  beasts,  whilst  the  noble  Lords  owning  the 
tenements  squeeze  rent  out  of  their  very  blood.  What 
does  the  Government  do  for  them  ?  Are  there  pro 
visions  made  for  supplying  them  with  work  or  decent 
quarters  ?  A  paternal  Government  that  exacts  corn 
taxes,  meat  taxes,  and  taxes  on  whatever  is  produced 
and  consumed  crushes  instead  of  upholding  its  chil 
dren.  Who  can  see  these  things  and  not  fight  them 
with  tongue  and  pen  ?  "  he  asked,  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room. 

"  But  you  need  not  assume  the  responsibility,"  said 
Poole.  "  You  have  your  own  needs,  your  own  sickness 
and  suffering  to  bear ;  why  add  the  burdens  of  man 
kind  ?  It  is  morbid  !  " 

"  Nay,  Thomas  Poole,  you  who  are  working  un- 
weariedly  for  these  very  poor  need  not  teach  me  to  say, 
'Ami  my  brother's  keeper?'  You  have  time  and 
money  to  give,  and  you  do  it  nobly  ;  I  have  but  the  luxury 
of  praying  for  them,  and  writing  up  their  wrongs.  If 
those  articles  harm  me  with  the  powers  that  be,  I  have 
at  least  done  my  part  with  the  only  means  given  me." 

Poor  Coleridge  was  daily  learning  the  cruel  lesson 
of  poverty.  He  added  all  these  other  cares  to  his  own 
struggle,  and  grew  too  discouraged  to  do  even  his  own 
part.  Discouragement  and  opium  were  chaining  him, 
and  his  muse  fled  from  his  captivity. 


DRIFTING.  201 

He  returned  home,  but  not  for  a  long  stay.  Sarah's 
mournful  and  reproachful  looks  and  Southey's  coldness 
stung  him,  and  his  rheumatic  pains  drove  him  to  the 
only  sure  relief.  A  prostrating  spell  of  illness  made 
him  a  helpless  victim  to  his  tempter,  and  when  he  had 
sufficiently  recovered  lie  fled  to  Wordsworth's  sympa 
thizing  household  for  comfort.  Whilst  there,  Words 
worth  insisted  upon  his  accepting  one  hundred  pounds 
for  a  visit  to  the  tropics,  to  try  if  a  warmer  climate 
would  not  cure  his  rheumatic  troubles,  and  so  help 
him  overcome  his  opium  fiend. 

Wordsworth  insisted  that  the  money  was  principally 
due  Coleridge  from  his  part  of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads," 
in  which  the  "  Ancient  Mariner  "  and  some  of  his  other 
poems  had  been  included.  Joseph  Cottle  and  Thomas 
Poole  had  added  to  the  sum,  hoping  that  the  change 
might  benefit  the  man  who  seemed  so  rapidly  becoming 
a  wreck. 

Coleridge  afterwards  wrote  of  this  period  :  "  My 
convalescence  was  of  no  long  continuance,  but  what 
then  ?  the  remedy  was  at  hand,  and  infallible.  Alas  !  it 
is  with  a  bitter  smile,  a  laugh  of  gall  and  bitterness,  that 
I  recall  this  period  of  unsuspected  delusion,  and  how  I 
first  became  aware  of  the  maelstrom,  the  fatal  whirl 
pool  to  which  I  was  drawing,  just  when  the  current 
was  already  beyond  my  strength  to  stem."  • 

His  friend,  Sir  John  Stoddart,  who  was  Queen's  Ad 
vocate  at  Malta,  invited  him  there.  Southey  and 
Sarah  and  every  one  believed  the  climate  would  help 
to  cure  him  ;  so,  after  dallying  at  Thomas  Poole's  and 
delaying  until  April,  he  sailed.  The  voyage  helped 
him,  and  the  new  scenes  brightened  his  spirits.  His 
*  "  Biographia  Literaria." 


202       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

eloquence  and  culture  attracted  the  notice  of  the  Gov 
ernor,  Sir  Alexander  Ball,  who  invited  him  to  be  his 
private  secretary.  He  gladly  accepted  the  position,  and 
for  a  time  all  went  well ;  but  the  intense  heat  and  glare 
of  sun  and  sand  oppressed  him.  He  sent  home  some 
money,  and  having  left  the  Wedgwood  annuity  to  his 
wife  and  family,  and  feeling  that  they  were  beyond 
want  with  that  and  the  Southeys'  help,  he  wrote  cheer 
fully  of  his  convalescence  and  position. 

He  was  relieved  of  the  dressing  and  ceremony  that 
always  belong  to  a  public  office,  especially  in  the  col 
onies,  where  the  Government  dignity  is  maintained  by 
the  magnificence  of  its  officers.  His  quaint,  plain 
dress,  that  of  an  English  rustic,  with  no  attempt  at 
fashion,  and  his  simple  manners,  made  him  quite  a 
marked  man  in  the  little  community. 

But  he  was  not  in  harmony  with  his  surroundings ; 
he  intensely  disliked  the  noisy  Malta. 

He  was  made  magistrate,  and  tried  to  accommodate 
himself  to  the  dignified  position.  But  it  was  terribly 
irksome,  and  his  heart  was  too  tender  to  punish  offend 
ers.  He  was  no  aristocrat,  and  he  was  too  honest  to 
assume  the  dress  or  bearing  belonging  to  his  office. 
His  eccentricities  were  tolerated,  and  his  talents  were 
admired  ;  but  he  never  could  be  popular  ;  and  between 
his  distaste  for  work,  and  his  old  enemy,  opium,  which 
again  came  creeping  in,  his  duties  became  insupport 
able.  He  resigned  the  secretaryship  with  its  magis 
terial  duties.  He  accepted  a  Government  commission 
to  Sicily,  which  he  fulfilled  satisfactorily,  and  then 
went  on  to  Rome.  His  lethargy  and  inability  to  stick 
to  regular  occupation  drove  him  forth  again,  a  rudder 
less  ship,  drifting,  drifting,  drifting  here  and  there,  in- 


DRIFTING.  203 

dulging  his  fatal  opium  habit,  and  sometimes  writing 
and  taking  notes  for  the  future  poems  and  books  that 
would  never  be  written. 

Again  Providence  had  crossed  his  untoward  fate,  and 
given  him  a  second  chance  in  life.  The  position  and 
favor  that  were  given  him  in  Malta  might  have  built 
up  character  and  fortune  ;  but  the  same  nerveless 
hand  that  relaxed  its  hold  when  the  editorship  was 
offered  him  also  dropped  this  rudder  now. 

He  feasted  upon  the  wondrous  ruins,  and  lived  on  the 
memories  of  the  Past  that  hover  around  Rome,  in  the 
columns,  arches,  and  other  grand  verifications  of  his 
tory  written  over  its  antiquities.  He  basked  in  the 
grandeur  of  the  Coliseum,  and  shuddered  over  the  per 
secutions  of  the  early  Christians,  as  he  penetrated  the 
Catacombs  in  those  classic  scenes,  familiar  from  his 
studies  and  wide  reading.  His  wonder  and  admiration 
were  awakened  by  the  superb  churches  of  that  city  of 
temples.  He  dreamed  his  dreams  of  great  achieve 
ment  and  noble  poems  that  should  atone  for  these 
months  of  dolcefar  niente.  His  brilliant  conversation 
and  information  made  him  a  favorite  with  the  poets 
and  artists  who  haunt  Italy. 

He  met  Allston,  the  American  painter  and  writer, 
who  painted  his  portrait,  and  always  remembered  the 
dreamy-eyed  poet  who  talked  like  a  god.  He  also  be 
came  intimate  with  Humboldt,  whose  friendship  wras  of 
service  later.  But  he  could  not  work,  and  shame  at 
his  idleness,  and  humiliation  at  his  incapacity,  made 
him  shun  those  to  whom  he  owed  duties. 

Sarah  waited  and  grieved,  month  after  month,  look 
ing  for  tidings  or  letters,  fearing  he  was  dead.  Then 
hearing  from  the  Stoddarts  that  he  had  left  Malta,  and 


204      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

had  not  given  her  or  his  friends  a  clue  to  his  where 
abouts,  she  lost  faith,  at  last,  and  felt  that  her  husband 
was  unworthy  of  her  love.  She  learned  little  by  little 
to  steel  her  heart  against  him.  She  grew  worn  and 
stricken,  but  held  the  truant's  name  above  reproach, 
determined  to  hope  to  the  last. 

Month  after  month  passed  with  no  line  or  message  ! 
His  friends  first  wondered,  then  feared.  Even  his 
beloved  Wordsworth  had  had  no  message  from  him  for 
over  a  year,  nor  had  Charles  Lamb. 

They  wrote  to  Malta,  and  some  of  their  letters  followed 
him  and  deepened  the  sting  of  his  accusing  conscience. 
He  turned  from  their  loving  steadfastness  to  nurse  his 
own  bitter  humiliation,  that  he,  Coleridge,  the  poet, 
philosopher,  preacher — ay,  the  Christian,  was  drifting, 
a  rudderless  wreck,  at  the  mercy  of  a  deadly  foe.  The 
bitterest  thought  was  that  his  worst  enemy  was  himself. 

He  drove  out  with  insane  fury  the  thoughts  of  wife, 
children,  home.  He  dared  not  go  back  to  them  a  mere 
shattered  wreck,  with  little  purpose  and  no  courage. 
He  spared  not  himself ;  but  they  should  not  share  his 
degradation,  nor  should  they  know  it.  Southey,  the 
worker,  who  excused  neither  himself  nor  others,  should 
he  scorn  him  for  this  cursed  want  of  purpose  ?  Words 
worth,  the  simple,  noble  interpreter  of  nature,  his  dear 
and  trusting  friend,  should  he  see  all  that  was  lovable 
in  him  quenched  and  dead  ?  And  Lamb — dear,  tender 
Charles  Lamb,  who  was  calling  for  him  as  for  a  lost 
brother,  should  they  all  know  of  his  life's  failure,  and 
pity  him  ?  And  Coleridge  wept  the  bitterest  tears  that  a 
man  can  shed — tears  for  his  lost  manhood,  his  wasted 
opportunities.  He  fled  farther  and  farther  from  their 
letters,  and  at  last  dared  not  open  those  that  reached 


DRTFTING.  205 

him.  He  could  not  bear  these  reminders  of  lost  home 
and  friends. 

Yet,  in  this  time  of  his  worst  misery,  Coleridge's  life 
was  not  given  up  to  shame  or  debauchery.  The  wreck 
was  of  spirit  and  energies.  He  controlled  and  prevented 
bodily  degradation ;  but  he  could  not  master  the  par 
alysis  of  will  and  energy  caused  by  opium,  and  he 
despised  himself  for  being  the  slave  of  the  destroyer. 

Poor,  foolish  dreamer,  by  his  silence  he  caused  more 
pain  than  if  he  had  confessed  the  worst.  His  wife 
could  have  borne  his  death  or  anything  better  than 
heartless  desertion.  She  grieved  and  wearied  until  at 
last  Charles  Lamb  heard  of  his  being  in  Sicily,  and  sent 
Sarah  word  of  his  safety,  which  was  little  better  than 
the  other  news  they  feared.  Then,  whilst  he  was  drift 
ing  around,  he  was  lost  to  them  again.  This  time  the 
poor  wife  grieved  no  more.  She  was  neither  wife  nor 
widow,  and  she  learned  to  brace  nerves  and  heart  against 
the  throes  of  lost  hope.  She  had  her  children  to  teach 
and  to  live  for.  She  had  a  pittance  to  live  upon  in  the 
Wedgwood  pension,  and  she  could  sew  for  Edith 
Southey,  and  help  her  with  her  family  cares,  in  return 
for  any  assistance  from  them. 

Southey  gave  help  and  comfort  most  generously  to 
her,  as  to  Mary  Lovell,  and  shouldered  every  burden 
that  came  in  his  way.  But,  for  the  wandering  husband 
and  father,  he  had  small  pity,  and  no  sympathy. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE     WHEEL     OFFATE. 

Possessions  vanish  and  opinions  change, 

And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat ; 

But  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 

And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane, 

Duty  exists — immutably  survives 

For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms 

Which  an  abstract  intelligence  supplies, 

Whose  kingdom  is  where  time  and  space  are  not. 

WORDSWORTH. — Excursion. 

WHILE  Coleridge  was  wandering  around  the  Continent, 
England  was  moving  her  men  on  the  chess-board,  and 
stupendous  changes  were  going  on. 

The  Peace  Party  was  overwhelmed  when  Napoleon 
proclaimed  himself  Emperor,  and  proceeded  to  become 
conqueror  of  the  world.  Pitt  was  recalled,  and  war 
again  raged  and  filled  all  minds.  Bonaparte's  mes 
sages  to  George  the  Third  about  crossing  the  Channel 
and  taking  possession  of  England  had  awakened  a  fury 
of  patriotism  in  the  English  mind.  England's  great 
victories  of  the  Nile  and  Trafalgar  were  hailed  with 
wildest  enthusiasm.  The  death  of  Nelson  seemed  a 
terrible  price  to  pay  for  victory ;  for  where  should 
another  Nelson  be  found  ?  Great  victories  in  battle 
always  mean  sorrow  to  many  stricken  hearts ;  but 
here  was  grief  to  a  nation.  Amid  the  flags  and 
banners  of  rejoicing  were  hung  the  tokens  of  mourning. 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FATE.  207 

Hilarity  and  enthusiasm  at  the  "  Round  Table  "  were 
tempered  with  serious  regrets. 

"I  s-saw  Lord  N-Nelson  on  Piccadilly  just  before  he 
s-sailed,  and  a  finer,  nobler  looking  little  w-w-warrior  I 
never  beheld.  There  was  a  de-de-determination  in 
every  step.  He  could  fight  for  the  r-r-right  with  the 
arm  that  was  1-1-left,"  said  Lamb. 

"  The  funeral  will  cost  the  country  a  pretty  penny," 
added  the  impecunious  Godwin. 

"  More  taxes  and  high-pressure,"  said  William 
Hazlitt,  with  his  customary  sneer.  "  These  funeral 
pageants  are  a  frightful  addition  to  the  cost  of  a  vic 
tory.  I  wonder  how  the  '  little  Hero '  feels  at  such 
signal  defeats ;  he  is  not  accustomed  to  being  on  the 
losing  side,"  he  added. 

"  Egad  !  we  must  look  out  for  his  revenge,"  said 
Rickman  ;  "  a  defeat  turns  Bony  into  the  very  devil." 

The  funeral  pageant  was  perhaps  the  greatest  the 
world  has  ever  known.  William  Godwin  summoned 
courage  to  invite  the  Lambs  and  a  few  other  friends 
to  witness  it  from  his  front  windows. 

Now,  Godwin's  second  wife  was  known  to  be  an 
Amazon,  and  upon  his  first  call  on  Godwin,  after  the 
marriage,  Charles  Lamb  had  fled  precipitately  from 
her  sarcasms. 

"  She's  an  old  c-c-cat,  with  c-c-claws,"  he  had  said 
upon  his  return,  and  he  never  would  divulge  the 
particular  form  of  unpleasantness  that  had  routed  him. 

On  this  occasion  the  dame  chose  to  be  gracious ; 
and  between  her  own  children  (for  she  had  been  a 
widow  with  two  children)  and  Mary  Wollstonecraft's 
two  little  girls  and  the  guests  there  was  quite  a  merry 
party  to  witness  the  splendid  display  of  marines,  cavalry, 


208       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

artillery,  nobility,  and  civic  societies,  with  banners  and 
all  their  paraphernalia,  and  the  wondrous  funeral  car, 
with  its  columns  and  plumes  and  beautiful  horses. 
The  procession  lasted  nearly  all  day.  Mrs.  Godwin 
served  a  fine  luncheon  to  her  guests,  and  was  so  gra 
cious  that  Mary  Lamb  wondered  why  Charles  had 
been  so  afraid  of  her.  They  became  very  friendly, 
and  Mary  sometimes  visited  the  Godwins  afterwards. 

She  had  felt  great  sympathy  for  the  lonely  "  profes 
sor,"  as  Lamb  always  called  his  serious  friend  with  the 
great  head  and  shaggy  mane,  after  his  interesting  wife, 
Mary  Wollstonecraft,  had  died,  leaving  him  with  the 
new-born  babe  and  her  little  Fanny  Imlay.  He  and 
his  wife  had  kept  separate  homes,  that  he  might  not  be 
disturbed  by  her  little  Fanny.  And  when  he  had  moved 
his  possessions  to  the  desolate  home  where  nurses  had 
charge  of  the  motherless  babies,  Mary  had  pitied  him 
doubly  for  these  increased  cares,  and  had  often  gone 
with  Charles  to  visit  the  little  ones  and  their  father. 
Fanny  Imlay  was  now  a  pretty,  timid  child  of  twelve, 
and  Mary  Godwin  a  most  winning  little  fairy  of  eight. 
Mary  loved  children,  and  was  glad  to  renew  her 
acquaintance  with  these  motherless  bairns  who  had 
found  so  warm  a  corner  in  her  heart  during  their  baby 
hood.  She  was  pleased  to  see  that  the  reputed  tartar 
seemed  so  kind  to  the  children  ;  and  as  they  were  not 
overmuch  afraid  of  her,  she  must  be  a  reasonably  good 
step-mother,  in  spite  of  the  many  reports  of  her  temper 
and  eccentricities. 

Scarcely  a  month  after  the  death  of  Nelson,  the 
dandies  and  fashionables  who  frequented  Piccadilly 
gathered  in  throngs  at  Lloyd's  coffee-house,  this  time 
to  read  of  defeat  upon  the  great  placards. 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FATE.  209 

Napoleon,  already  in  possession  of  Vienna,  had  de 
feated  the  allies  at  Austerlitz,  and  was  enjoying  the 
triumphant  revenge  for  Trafalgar  that  Rickman  had 
predicted.  All  along  the  Strand  and  Holborn  the 
coffee-houses  were  besieged  with  excited  crowds,  and 
at  night  one  could  see  groups  of  men  striking  their 
flints  and  lighting  their  tinder  to  read  the  placards, 
when  the  smoking  lamps  that  were  meant  to  light 
them  had  blown  out  in  the  wind  and  sleet. 

Pitt's  rage  and  disappointment  were  so  intense  that 
he  went  to  bed  ill,  and  in  a  couple  of  weeks  came 
whispers  that  the  minister  was  dying,  and  then  came 
the  shock  of  his  death.  There  was  another  great  fune 
ral,  with  military  and  civic  honors,  and  the  great  Tory 
leader  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  near  his 
illustrious  father. 

They  were  stirring  times,  and  the  Opposition  coterie 
at  Holland  House  discussed  the  changes  with  grave 
decorum.  Pitt,  their  great  opponent,  was  dead,  and 
Napoleon  had  gained  another  victory,  followed  by 
treaties  for  peace  !  It  was  an  anxious  time.  Grave 
debates  excluded  all  lighter  interests  at  the  dinners  and 
salons  of  Holland  House.  Lord  John  Russell  and 
Lord  Lansdowne,  Lord  Grenville  and  the  whole  party 
of  "  All  the  Talents,"  insisted  upon  Fox  giving  up  his 
cherished  retirement  in  the  country  and  returning  to 
the  ministry.  Lord  Grenville  and  Lord  Grey  refused 
to  serve  without  the  man  who  had  for  so  long  headed 
the  Liberal  party.  Poor  old  George  the  Third,  utterly 
discouraged  by  Pitt's  death,  and  the  war  defeats,  and 
troubles  with  the  last  ministry,  was  obliged  to  throw 
down  the  gantlet  at  last,  and  imply  a  desire  for  his 
old  enemy's  return  to  the  ministry.  Fox  was  called  to 

14 


210       THE    DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

London  to  meet  the  leaders  of  his  party,  and  was  per 
suaded,  sorely  against  his  will,  to  serve  as  Secretary  of 
Foreign  Affairs.  His  literary  taste  and  love  of  quiet 
were  far  dearer  to  him  than  ambition. 

"  Your  country  needs  you  in  her  crisis,"  wrote  Lord 
Holland,  his  nephew.  "  I  must  repeat  to  you  and  for 
you  Lord  Nelson's  great  and  last  appeal :  *  England 
expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty.'  Is  it  not  your 
duty  to  serve  your  party  and  your  country  ? "  His 
devoted  wife  added  her  entreaties,  and  Charles  James 
Fox  again  accepted  public  office  after  an  absence  from 
the  ministry  of  nearly  twenty-three  years.  True,  he 
had  served  in  Parliament  several  times  since,  and  had 
warmly  upheld  all  reform  and  liberal  movements,  and 
his  wonderful  eloquence  was  always  a  powerful  lever  to 
raise  the  interests  of  his  party.  The  abolition  of  the 
slave  trade,  so  long  battled  for  by  Wilberforce  and 
Thomas  Clarkson,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge's  friend, 
was  powerfully  aided  by  Fox,  and  he  continually  fought 
for  it  during  his  periods  of  service  in  Parliament.  But 
his  impatience  at  the  Tory  party's  restraints  and 
opposition  to  all  Liberal  measures,  and  the  King's  open 
enmity,  had  long  made  the  scholarly  retirement  of  St. 
Anne's  Hill  far  sweeter  than  the  turmoils  of  public  life. 
He  adored  his  wife  and  was  only  happy  in  her  society, 
and  when  his  country  called  him  from  that  calm  happi 
ness  to  the  bustle  and  excitement  of  London,  he  almost 
wept  at  the  sacrifice.  Even  the  charms  of  Holland 
House,  his  dearly  loved  early  home,  could  not  compen 
sate  him. 

For  years  Holland  House  had  been  the  great  rally 
ing  point  of  the  Liberals.  In  its  stately  halls,  not  only 
aristocratic  politicians  assembled  to  talk  over  the  great 


THE   WHEEL  OF  FA  TE.  2 1 1 

questions  of  the  times,  but  the  literati  of  the  day  met 
and  discussed  the  latest  books  and  the  progress  of 
thought.  For  centuries  Holland  House  had  been  a 
marked  spot  in  the  literary  world.  In  Queen  Anne's 
time,  Addison  had  made  it  the  favorite  rendezvous  of 
scholars  and  authors.  Pope,  Gray,  Swift,  and  all  the 
luminaries  of  that  day  shone  at  its  dinners.  There 
the  unfortunate  Charles  the  First  and  his  adherents  had 
found  ready  welcome,  and  in  addition  to  the  place's 
historic  claims,  Henry  Vassail  Fox  and  his  brilliant 
wife  now  delighted  in  making  it  the  pleasantest  and 
most  popular  house  in  London.  He  was  a  man  of 
scholarly  tastes,  a  statesman  of  some  note,  and  his 
writings  upon  Spanish  literature  gave  him  a  place 
among  the  literati  of  the  day.  The  wits  and  beauties 
of  the  times  also  assembled  at  the  salons  of  Lady 
Holland,  although  the  eccentricities  of  her  temper  and 
the  sharpness  of  her  satire  often  caused  her  fair  rivals 
hours  of  rage  or  disquiet.  Still,  invitations  to  Holland 
House  were  always  accepted.  Who  could  refuse  the 
coveted  chance  to  mingle  among  the  most  brilliant 
spirits  of  London — yes,  of  the  world,  for  here  assembled, 
also,  the  famous  men  of  other  countries  :  Lavater, 
Prince  Talleyrand,  Prince  Metternich,  Humboldt, 
and  innumerable  distinguished  foreigners  ;  and  there 
were  met  Rogers  and  Tom  Moore,  Lord  Byron  and 
Campbell ;  and  Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  and  all  the 
greatest  painters  and  sculptors  also  graced  those  gay 
scenes. 

The  house  itself  was  beautiful,  with  its  superb  library, 
and  the  pictures  and  elegant  ornaments  and  articles 
of  vertu  which  adorned  the  drawing-room.  The  bril 
liant  "gilt  room,"  with  its  mirrors  and  myriads  of  soft 


212       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

waxen  tapers,  set  off  well  the  beauty  and  vivacity  of 
the  guests.  Amid  statuary  and  rich  tapestries,  and 
grouped  tropical  plants  from  the  conservatories,  the 
soft  flow  of  conversation  and  ripples  of  laughter  along 
the  halls  and  galleries,  the  silken  clinging  draperies  of 
the  day,  and  dazzling  pearly  shoulders  and  high  pow 
dered  coiffures  (slowly  relinquishing  their  hold  since 
the  tax  upon  hair-powder),  made  Holland  House  the 
pinnacle  of  London  society.  And  amid  these  charm 
ing  scenes,  in  the  stormy  days  of  George  the  Third  and 
the  Regency,  one  could  always  find  groups  and  couples 
discussing  the  public  questions — the  Reform  Bill,  the 
"  Catholic  Emancipation  "  question,  and  the  "  Poor 
Law "  bill,  and  all  the  interests  of  the  Whig  party. 
The  future  Prince  Regent  was  a  frequent  habitue,  and 
he  and  "  All  the  Talents  "  were  too  strong  an  alliance 
for  the  poor  old  King  to  cope  with.  He  had  leaned 
upon  Pitt  for  so  many  years,  and  relied  so  upon  his 
wisdom  and  influence  whenever  his  pitiful  spells  of 
madness  incapacitated  him,  that  he  now  turned  to  the 
compassion  of  his  opposers  as  he  felt  his  mental  forces 
yielding  again  to  care  and  disappointment.  There  the 
many  brilliant  speeches  of  Pitt  and  Burke  and  Fox, 
in  Parliament,  were  discussed,  and  here  Jeffrey  and 
Henry  Noon  Talfourd  were  welcomed  as  wits  and 
writers,  when  elsewhere  aristocrats  and  fashionables 
had  not  learned  to  recognize  talent  in  literary  paths. 

Tom  Moore,  however,  a  young  poetaster  of  Irish  ex 
traction,  and  young  Campbell,  the  brilliant  Scotchman, 
who  was  coming  into  notice  by  reason  of  several  excel 
lent  poems,  were  invited  to  the  Holland  House  salons, 
whilst  our  English  poets  were  withering  under  the 
sneers  and  sarcasms  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  which 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FATE.  213 

found  some  merit  in  Tom  Moore's  pretty  little  songs, 
in  the  rising  young  poet  of  Edinburgh,  and  in  young 
Byron.  There  was  a  great  gulf  in  those  days,  as  to 
day,  between  the  rich  and  aristocratic  and  the  poor, 
and  only  those  crossed  the  chasm  who  were  willing  to 
be  patronized.  Tom  Moore  made  it  the  ambition  of 
his  life  to  toady  to  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  Holland 
House  coterie,  and  to  be  invited  to  their  dinners. 

Later,  it  became  his  business  to  follow  them  around, 
and  sing  his  ditties  to  entertain  their  guests.  One 
has  but  to  read  his  journal  and  memoirs  to  see  how 
all-important  were  their  functions  and  their  smiles. 
And  when  Lady  Holland  occasionally  turned  her  sar 
casms  upon  the  obliging  poetaster,  he  was  miserable 
until  he  had  made  his  peace  with  her  ladyship. 

Such  aims  had  no  place  among  our  sturdy,  inde 
pendent  children  of  nature.  They  scorned  the  preten 
sions  of  the  rich,  and  sneered  at  the  pomp  and  para 
phernalia  of  wealth.  Not  one  of  them  aspired  to  having 
more  than  a  mere  competency.  If  they  sought  friends, 
it  was  for  friendship's  sake,  and  because  of  congeni 
ality  in  mind  and  taste.  And  so  the  gulf  remained. 

Some  came  from  the  other  side  across  to  the  whist 
and  tobacco  and  whisky  of  Lamb's  Wednesday  even 
ings  ;  but  our  friends  remained  on  the  hither  side,  and 
were  damned  as  unfashionable  by  London  society. 

They  could  not  be  tempted  across  ;  it  would  be 
flinging  off  the  prejudices  and  principles  of  a  life-time. 
Both  Lamb  and  Coleridge  spoke  scornfully  of  the 
pomp  and  glitter  of  their  rivals,  whilst  their  rivals  (if 
such  they  may  be  termed)  ignored  them. 

"  Ay  !  there's  the  rub  !  "  What  insult  stings  so 
keenly  as  living  forgotten  and  unnoticed  ?  Pride  ever 


214       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

clothes  itself  with  a  sneer  to  cover  the  nakedness  of 
oblivion  ;  and  the  little  parties  around  the  whist  table, 
with  its  cold  beef  and  hot  punch,  rivaled  the  wit  and 
wines  and  dinners  of  "  that  Lady  Holland  mob,"  as 
Lamb  irreverently  termed  his — betters.  But  the  little 
gnat-stings  do  not  harm  the  great  folks  upon  their 
heights — and  they  may  ease  the  gnat  of  a  little  super 
fluous  venom. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

My  soul  is  sad  that  I  have  roamed  through  life, 
Still  most  a  stranger,  most  with  naked  heart, 
At  mine  own  home  and  birthplace." 

COLERIDGE. 

DURING  these  stirring  times  of  victories,  defeats, 
and  deaths,  Coleridge  was  lingering  on  in  Rome  amid 
its  kaleidoscope  of  scenes  and  impressions.  The  news 
of  Trafalgar  and  Austerlitz  and  of  Pitt's  death  reached 
him  there  when  he  was  charming  Allston  and  Humboldt, 
Thorwaldsen,  Angelica  Kauffmann,  and  other  new 
friends  with  his  eloquence.  But  Humboldt  had  already 
warned  him  that  Napoleon  had  not  forgotten  those 
letters  of  his  in  the  "  Morning  Post "  advocating  war 
upon  the  "  Tyrant  of  Europe."  Hearing  that  the  Consul 
never  forgot  or  forgave  an  enemy,  Humboldt  had  warned 
him  to  leave  ere  Bonaparte  should  reach  Italy.  But 
Coleridge  had  not  heeded  the  warning,  believing  himself 
too  insignificant  an  opponent  to  be  worth  the  great 
Napoleon's  notice.  It  seemed  impossible  that  the  busy 
First  Consul  should  have  seen  or  remembered  the  attacks 
of  an  English  journalist.  But  he  had  miscalculated  the 
power  of  the  Argus-eyed  conqueror  to  whom  in  his  days 
of  triumph  all  things  were  possible.  Soon  after  this,  * 
in  June,  1806,  a  Benedictine  monk  came  to  his  chamber 

*  "  Biographia  Literaria." 


216        THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

with  a  message  from  no  less  a  person  than  Pope  Pius 
the  Seventh.  The  Pope,  learning  of  orders  from  Napo 
leon  for  the  arrest  of  Coleridge,  procured  him  a  passport 
from  Rome  as  a  Benedictine  monk ;  and  upon  receiv 
ing  this  direct  message  Coleridge  left  Rome  in  mo 
nastic  dress,  with  his  visitor,  who  had  provided  a  car 
riage  and  the  disguise.  Scarcely  had  he  left  his  apart 
ment  when  several  gens-d"* armes  appeared  at  the  door 
to  arrest  him.  They  were  greatly  mystified  at  his 
escape,  as  the  order  had  been  received  but  a  few  hours 
before. 

It  was  a  kind  and  noble  act  of  the  head  of  a  Church 
that  Coleridge  had  always  despised.  Coleridge,  with 
all  his  changes  of  belief  and  searchings  after  truth,  had 
felt  but  one  way  towards  it.  He  was  utterly  intolerant 
of  its  trammels  and  paraphernalia,  and  never  hesitated 
to  express  his  contempt.  Yet  the  head  of  this  Church 
had  graciously  rescued  the  heretic  from  his  vindictive 
enemy,  and  sent  him  into  safety,  for  the  sake  of  his 
poems  and  genius. 

The  two  monks  reached  Leghorn  safely.  Coleridge 
bade  a  grateful  adieu  to  his  protector,  and  laid  aside 
his  sheep's  clothing  for  the  disguise  of  a  countryman 
with  vegetables,  and  in  this  masquerade  costume 
boarded  an  American  ship  bound  for  England.* 

His  usual  eloquence  won  the  captain's  promise  of 
protection,  and  again  the  wanderer  was  cared  for  by 
strangers,  and  kindly  guided  along  his  way.  He  saw 
and  acknowledged  the  loving  Father's  care  over  his 
erring  child,  and  he  humbly  and  penitently  confessed 
how  little  he  deserved  it.  He  prayed  for  guidance  and 
mercy,  for  help  to  overcome  his  tempter,  and  the  power 
*"Life  of  Coleridge." — BRANDL. 


THE   WANDERER'S  RETURN.  217 

to  begin  a  new  life.  They  had  a  terribly  rough  pas 
sage,  and  poor  Coleridge  was  so  ill  that  he  hoped 
death  would  release  him  from  the  enemy  that  slept  by 
his  side  and  warmed  itself  in  his  bosom.  But  he 
lived  during  fifty-five  days  of  tossing  and  danger. 

Napoleon,  hearing  that  his  prey  had  escaped,  sent 
a  French  man-of-war  after  the  little  American  packet 
with  its  contraband  passenger.  The  captain  insisted 
upon  poor  Coleridge  throwing  all  his  papers  into  the 
sea,  so  that,  if  the  vessel  were  captured,  nothing  of  a 
suspicious  character  should  be  found  to  implicate  him 
or  his  vessel. 

With  a  heavy  heart  Coleridge  threw  his  letters  and 
his  notes  of  travel  and  incidents  for  future  work  into 
the  jaws  of  the  all-devouring  monster,  that  hourly 
threatened  to  swallow  them  and  their  plunging  ship. 

So,  shorn  of  all  evidence  of  his  two  years'  work, 
and  without  the  foundation  for  future  poems,  Coleridge 
landed  in  England,  August,  1806,  friendless,  poor,  and 
despondent,  feeling  that  he  had  been  saved  from  a 
French  prison  ;  from  shipwreck  at  sea  ;  from  illness 
almost  unto  death — for  what  ? 

He  hunted  up  Lamb,  who  welcomed  him  joyfully, 
and  made  much  of  him. 

Mary  received  him  as  a  loving  sister  receives  a  sick 
brother,  and  comforted  him  and  coddled  him  with 
the  gruels  and  teas  that  such  souls  love  to  administer. 
The  poor  homeless  fellow  felt  that  life  still  held  some 
comforts.  Charles  wrote  that  Coleridge  had  come 
home  as  brilliant  and  lovable  as  ever — "  an  archangel 
slightly  damaged."  * 

He  was  rfcmeless — worse  than  homeless  ;  because, 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AiNGER. 


218      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

having  a  home  and  family,  he  had  deserted  them.  He 
felt  unfit  to  claim  the  deserted  fireside  and  the  dis 
honored  wife.  But  his  heart  yearned  for  them  ;  the 
patient,  wronged  woman  was  still  dear  to  him;  the 
little  daughter  was  growing  beyond  his  memories  of 
the  tiny  baby,  and  the  little  sons  were  strangers  to 
their  father.  He  went  first  to  Wordsworth,  and  found 
floods  of  sympathy  and  tenderness.  They  had  not 
suffered  by  his  neglect  and  absence,  and  it  is  easy  to 
forgive  where  there  is  no  personal  wrong. 

Wordsworth  read  him  "  The  Prelude,"  which  he  had 
dedicated  to  the  absent  Coleridge.  The  noble  poem 
stirred  him  to  the  depths  of  his  soul.  He  wept  over 
his  own  aimless  and  misspent  years.  He  wept  in 
sympathy  with  the  noble  thoughts  and  earnest  purpose 
of  his  friend.  And  those  tears  of  remorse  and  repent 
ance  healed  the  wounded  heart,  and  stirred  the  be 
numbed  will  into  action. 

He  was  inspired  again  by  the  wine  of  his  friend's 
faith  in  him,  and  sympathy  that  was  not  pity ;  and  he 
wrote  to  Wordsworth  : 

"  O  Great  Bard, 

Ere  yet  that  last  strain,  dying,  awed  the  air, 
With  steadfast  eye  I  viewed  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  ever  enduring  men.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  as  I  listened  with  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew." 

And  Wordsworth  wrote  of  Coleridge,  referring  to  this 
sad  time  of  his  return  : 

"  Ah  !  piteous  sight  it  was  to  see  this  man 
When  he  came  back  to  us  a  withered  flower, 
Or  like  a  sinful  creature 

Would  he  sit,  and  without  strength  or  power 
Look  at  the  common  grass  from  hour  to  hour." 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.  219 

He  longed  for  a  sight  of  his  children.  They  were 
as  dear  to  him  as  other  little  ones  to  happier  fathers' 
hearts.  Yet  he  dreaded  to  face  his  wife,  and  see  her 
reproaches  for  those  months,  yes,  years,  of  silence. 

"  I  love  them,  yet  I  must  leave  them  all ;  my  pretty, 
pretty  birdling,  with  her  sweet  baby  ways,  has  forgot 
ten  her  father,  and  I  will  not  shame  her  and  my  bonny 
boys  with  the  daily  sight  of  my  wrecked  life.  If  I  ever 
gain  the  mastery  over  my  devil,  I  can  go  to  them  with 
thankfulness  and  joy." 

But  as  he  said  it  with  tears,  he  heaved  such  a  sigh 
that  Wordsworth  was  touched  to  his  heart's  core,  and 
Mary  and  Dorothy  sobbed  outright. 

Here,  and  here  only,  Coleridge  felt  he  was  under 
stood  ;  and  under  Wordsworth's  roof  at  Allan  Bank  he 
felt  at  home. 

The  two  poets  worked  the  pretty  garden,  and  dug 
and  planted  and  were  happy.  Allan  Bank  was  a  bower 
of  roses  and  sweet,  old-fashioned  flowers,  and  Mary 
Wordsworth  was  a  sweet,  loving,  trusting  woman  who 
clung  tenderly  to  her  husband,  but  never  let  the  twining 
tendrils  hamper  the  spreading  boughs,  as  do  so  many 
loving  but  selfish  wives.  As  tender  wife  and  mother, 
she  claimed  gladly  her  share  of  her  poet's  time  and 
attention,  and  gave  him  such  restful  repose  that  he 
often  marveled  at  her  influence  and  the  secret  of  her 
strength. 

"  So  might  poor  Sarah  have  been  if  I  had  been  as 
patient  and  tender  as  Wordsworth,"  thought  Cole 
ridge.  "  She  loved  me  as  truly  and  watched  me 
as  faithfully,  but  my  unfortunate  habits  made  her 
wretched." 

Again  the  demon   tempted  him  to  forget  all,  in  the 


220      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

wild,  blissful  fool-dreams  where  tropical  jungles  with 
gay  birds  singing  on  every  bough  changed  to  vast  halls 
and  pillared  palaces  whose  exquisite  orchestras  lulled 
his  senses,  and  slaves  and  houris  bowed  in  homage 
before  him.  He  was  the  ruler  and  god  in  this  fantastic 
dreamland,  and  the  shame  of  his  wasted  life  and  en 
chained  powers  was  utterly  forgotten.  What  wonder 
that  the  golden  enthrallment  bound  him  fast,  when  it 
offered  not  only  delights  beyond  conception,  but  Lethe 
for  all  earthly  cares  and  disappointments. 

Soon  after  Coleridge  went  to  visit  Thomas  Poole  at 
Stowey,  and  there  met  De  Quincy,  who  had  long  ad 
mired  Coleridge's  poems  and  sought  this  opportunity 
to  pay  grateful  homage  to  the  poet.  Coleridge's  heart 
was  touched ;  he  accepted  the  homage.  It  lifted  him  to 
his  proper  place,  and  he  conversed  with  De  Quincy  "  like 
one  inspired."  De  Quincy  listened  and  wondered,  and 
seeing  his  new  friend's  hopelessness  and  sadness  behind 
the  gayety,  wondered  the  more.  He  spoke  of  taking 
laudanum  for  face-ache,  and  this  roused  Coleridge  to  a 
sense  of  his  new  friend's  danger.  He  besought  him  in 
terror  to  let  the  poison  alone.  He  confessed  his  own 
misery. 

"  Shun  opium  as  you  would  the  devil,"  he  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  young  friend's  shoulder.  "  It 
is  the  devil's  own  emissary,  and  you  are  helpless  before 
it.  Let  it  alone,  I  implore  you." 

De  Quincy  wondered  at  his  earnestness,  not  knowing 
the  secret  of  his  life.  In  after  years  when  he,  himself, 
was  in  the  toils  of  the  beast,  he  remembered  Coleridge's 
warnings. 

De  Quincy,  finding  his  idol  so  depressed,  and  believ 
ing  that  debt  and  want  were  the  sole  cause,  gave  Joseph 


THE   WANDERER'S  RETURN.  221 

Cottle  ^300  for  Coleridge,  stipulating  entire  secrecy 
as  to  the  donor. 

Although  his  prayers  for  deliverance  from  his  tempter 
seemed  unanswered,  still,  in  his  worst  days  of  need, 
help  came  from  some  unexpected  source  to  lift  his 
soul  from  its  depths  of  despair.  How  often  kind 
friends  had  been  led  to  help  this  song-bird  with  the 
broken  wing  ! 

The  Wedgwoods  had  assisted  him  for  years ;  Joseph 
Cottle  and  Thomas  Poole  were  ever  ready  to  relieve  him 
in  a  day  of  need ;  and  Wordsworth  and  Lamb  were 
always  as  brothers,  glad  to  share  their  small  earnings 
with  him.  Southey  had  always  taken  up  the  burden  of 
family  cares  when  Coleridge  was  unable  to  carry  it 
alone  ;  and  now  a  stranger  had  sent  him  a  gift  which 
would  pay  the  debts  that  oppressed  him,  and  enable 
him  to  go  less  like  a  beggar  to  his  neglected  wife. 

Sarah's  letters  assured  him  of  a  welcome  to  Greta 
Hall,  and  at  last  he  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

The  joy  of  seeing  them  was  great,  but  it  was  so 
mingled  with  pain  that  it  was  but  a  trying  ordeal  to  all. 
Should  the  fatted  calf  be  killed  for  the  wanderer  who 
had  sent  no  messages  during  his  long  absence,  and  who 
lingered  to  receive  the  home  greetings  last  of  all  ?  Sarah 
felt  the  hurt  more  than  the  joy  of  his  return,  and  he 
seemed  little  better  than  when  he  left.  He  was  terribly 
restless  and  depressed  and  quite  unable  to  work,  and 
the  reproach  of  Southey's  energy  and  cheerful  labor 
haunted  him.  He  saw  condemnation  in  their  glances ; 
he  felt  the  contrast  between  him  and  his  brother-in-law ; 
and  despair  at  his  lost  powers  drove  him  forth  to  see 
what  he  could  find  to  do  in  London,  to  earn  a  living  and 
brace  his  will  to  overcome  his  cravings  for  opium. 


222       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

He  applied  to  Stewart  for  a  position  upon  the  "  Post " 
and  "  Courier,"  whose  editorship  he  had  declined  a  few 
years  before.  Stewart  found  him  somewhat  unreliable 
about  regular  work,  and  he  was  treated  as  men  on  the 
down-hill  of  life  usually  are.  What  he  wrote  was 
accepted  or  rejected  at  will,  and  delayed  to  suit  the  con 
venience  of  editors  and  printers,  and  changed  and  dis 
sected  to  fit  their  purposes.  This  discouraged  and 
enraged  him,  yet  what  could  he  do?  He  must  take 
what  he  could  get.  They  gave  him  an  attic-room  near 
the  great  noisy  printing-press,  and  here  Coleridge  wrote 
faithfully  five  or  six  hours  daily — or  nightly — as  best 
suited  his  shattered  powers.  It  was  maddening  and 
utterly  discouraging  to  find  that  much  of  his  most  care 
ful  work  was  cast  ruthlessly  aside,  because  the  papers 
were  so  filled  with  war  and  parliamentary  matter  that 
they  could  not  place  it. 

Thomas  Poole  was  also  in  London  working  with 
Thomas  Clarkson  and  Wilberforce  for  the  abolition  of 
slavery.  They  lectured,  wrote,  and  labored  faithfully  for 
this  cause  of  humanity.  Pitt  had  promised  help  ;  but 
the  war  and  the  country's  greater  needs  had  kept  crowd 
ing  the  Abolition  bill  out.  Yet  now  that  Pitt  was  dead, 
Charles  Fox  and  his  party  also  promised  to  attend  to 
the  bill.  Again  foreign  interests  crowded  this  import 
ant  home  reform  out,  and  the  House  of  Lords  was  slow 
to  see  the  necessity  and  advantage,  and  even  the  pos 
sibility,  of  producing  sugar,  coffee,  and  tobacco  with 
out  slave  labor.  They  challenged  the  advocates  of  the 
bill  to  give  up  those  luxuries  if  their  consciences  would 
not  permit  them  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  slave  labor. 
Poole,  Clarkson,  and  many  of  the  Society  of  Friends 
actually  gave  up  sugar,  snuff,  tobacco,  and  all  the 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.  223 

products  of  slave  labor,  in  token  of  their  earnestness. 
Poor  Poole  yielded  his  snuff  and  pipe  most  reluctantly  ; 
for  they  were  deeply-rooted  habits  of  his  quiet  bachelor 
life. 

Lamb  and  Coleridge,  both  warm  advocates  of  the  bill, 
looked  with  admiration  and  wonder  at  their  friends, 
whose  strength  of  mind  and  purpose  enabled  them  to 
make  such  sacrifices  for  their  cause. 

Lamb's  Wednesday  evenings  were  as  full  of  excite 
ment  and  discussion  as  Holland  House.  Rickman  was 
terribly  in  earnest  in  his  efforts  to  advance  the  bill  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  where  he  was  clerk.  He 
brought  the  latest  news  of  its  progress,  and  of  the  par 
liamentary  interests,  and  of  the  "  Poor  Laws  Reform," 
which  was  equally  dear  to  our  friends.  As  the  "  Round 
Table  "  was  undivided  upon  these  interests,  the  argu 
ments  were  principally  upon  one  side  of  the  question ; 
but  great  enthusiasm  and  eagerness  were  expressed  in 
unmeasured  terms,  and  Coleridge  went  to  his  attic-room 
and  wrote  page  after  page  of  burning  eloquence  in  favor 
of  these  bills.  It  was  exasperating  to  have  his  work 
line  the  paper  basket  when  his  cause  needed  all  the 
championship  it  could  get. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ANOTHER    CALAMITY. 

The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 

Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 

'Twill  trickle  to  hi 3  rival's  bier. 

O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 

And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 

The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry— 

"  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 

Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom 

Whom  Fate  made  brothers  in  the  tomb; 

But  search  the  land  of  living  men, 

Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  again  ?  " 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

ANOTHER  bomb  fell  in  the  rival  camps.  Charles 
James  Fox  had  been  taken  ill  in  the  midst  of  earnest 
work  to  gain  an  advantageous  peace  with  the  French 
Consul.  The  coalition  parliament  of  "  All  the  Talents  " 
was  paralyzed  on  receiving  tidings  of  his  death.  He 
who  from  boyhood  had  been  a  power  to  move  and 
carry  on  the  reforms  of  the  Liberals  died  but  five 
months  after  his  rival,  Pitt. 

Lord  Grey  and  Lord  Grenville,  who  but  a  few  months 
before  had  refused  to  serve  in  the  ministry  without  the 
co-operation  of  the  great  Whig  leader,  were  now  forced  to 
bear  the  brunt  alone.  Holland  House  and  the  "  Round 
Table  "  of  Mitre  Court  were  alike  stricken,  and  but 
one  topic  filled  men's  minds — the  death  of  one  who 


ANOTHER  CALAMITY.  22$ 

for  more  than  thirty  years  had  been  their  oracle.  Yet 
this  man  w.as  but  fifty-eight  years  of  age. 

His  country  gave  him  a  fine  public  funeral,  and  he 
was  laid  in  Westminster  Abbey,  close  beside  his  life 
long  rival.  They,  whose  lives  were  spent  in  antagon 
ism,  in  their  country's  service,  shared  the  same  bed  in 
the  halls  of  the  leveler,  Death. 

His  successor,  Lord  Howick,  introduced  the  bill  that 
continued  to  be  a  bone  of  contention  for  many  years 
—the  "  Catholic  Emancipation  Bill."  The  Liberals 
fought  hard  to  remove  the  disabilities  of  the  Roman 
Catholics,  and  enable  them  to  hold  public  office.  The 
King  and  his  party  so  objected,  that  Lord  Grenville 
and  his  ministry  resigned  after  first  passing  the  "  Bill 
for  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave  Trade." 

Our  friends  threw  in  all  their  efforts  to  carry  this 
bill.  Lord  Grenville  and  his  party,  seeing  their  days 
were  numbered,  forced  it  to  an  issue,  and  Thomas 
Poole  *  and  Clarkson  sat  up  all  night  to  await  the  result. 
Poole  celebrated  the  victory  by  taking  a  vigorous  pinch 
of  snuff  and  smoking  a  "  pipe  of  peace." 

Thomas  Clarkson  and  our  friends,  the  poets,  met  at 
Charles  Lamb's,  and  spent  an  evening  in  wild  en 
thusiasm  at  the  success  of  their  long-contested  cause. 

Rickman,  Francis  Jeffrey,  Talfourd,  Wm.  Hazlitt, 
Thomas  Poole,  Mr.  Godwin,  Captain  Burney,  Coleridge, 
and  Wordsworth  from  his  quiet  hermitage  among  the 
Lakes,  all  met  in  Mitre  Court  upon  that  eventful  Wed 
nesday,  and  drank  to  the  success  of  freedom,  and  the 
prosperity  of  England  and  her  colonies. 

During  this  winter  Coleridge  was  invited  to  deliver 
a  course  of  lectures  before  the  Royal  Society.  He 

*  "  Life  of  Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends." 


226      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

hesitated,  knowing  his  weakness,  and  the  small  reliance 
to  be  placed  upon  himself  for  regular  work.  Sir  Hum 
phry  Davy  insisted,  and  Lamb  begged  his  friend  to 
undertake  the  task — so  light  a  one  to  a  man  whose 
universal  reading  made  him  so  familiar  with  all  literary 
subjects.  He  consented,  and  Lamb  took  him  home,  to 
watch  over  and  guide  him  during  the  time  of  the 
lectures  and  remind  him  of  the  hours  and  subjects. 
Mary  watched  him  like  a  mother,  providing  the  regular 
meals  and  strengthening  food,  so  necessary  to  restore 
shattered  nerves  to  healthy  action. 

These  lectures  upon  "  The  Fine  Arts  "  were  a  great 
success.  Albemarle  Street  was  thronged  with  the 
carriages  of  the  elite  of  London.  As  Coleridge  stood 
before  them,  with  the  light  of  genius  illumining  the 
great  gray  eyes,  with  its  stamp  upon  the  broad  brow, 
and  his  wonderful  eloquence  pouring  almost  faster 
than  the  deep,  rich  tones  could  utter  it,  his  audience 
were  carried  away.  He  became  the  fashion  ;  his  lect 
ures  were  discussed  in  every  drawing-room,  and  his 
poems  were  read  and  quoted.  The  poet  who  had 
been  so  long  secluded  amid  his  lakes  and  mountains, 
and  who  had  come  to  his  garret-room  in  London  to 
earn  a  scanty  living  with  his  pen,  became  the  oracle  of 
the  fashionable  world.  They  would  have  feted  and 
flattered  him  if  he  had  responded  to  their  call. 

But  the  fluttering  of  the  butterflies  was  not  to  his 
taste,  and  moreover  the  strain  upon  him,  of  the  regular 
hours  and  abstinence  from  his  poison,  was  greater  than 
any  one  but  his  friend  Lamb  knew. 

He  and  Mary  attended  the  lectures,  and  saw,  with 
pardonable  pride,  Lord  and  Lady  Holland  and  their 
friends,  and  the  young  Byron  and  others  of  the  best 


AiVOTHER  CALAMITY.  227 

known  people  of  London,  listening  with  rapt  attention 
to  Coleridge's  utterances.  They  were  pleased  with  the 
congratulations  and  demonstrations  of  delight  that 
greeted  him  after  the  lectures.  It  was  well  worth  their 
anxious  watching  and  careful  guarding  of  the  sick  soul 
from  its  tyrant.  But  the  old  enemy  was  clamoring 
for  admittance,  and  Lamb  and  Mary  watched  and 
entertained  him  by  day  and  often  far  into  the  night, 
fearing  he  might  open  the  door  to  his  tempter.  They 
gave  him  their  tenderest  care  to  the  very  last  of  the 
lectures,  and  felt  fully  repaid.  What  he  could  yet  do 
if  he  could  free  himself  from  opium  was  proved  to 
Coleridge.  And  the  ^150  which  he  received  greatly 
encouraged  him.  But  the  strain  reacted  upon  poor 
Mary  Lamb.  She  fell  into  a  stupor  from  which  Charles 
could  only  rouse  her  by  sudden  and  almost  violent 
maneuvers.  The  brother  and  sister  knew  what  would 
follow  the  preliminary  attack — that  in  a  few  hours 
she  would  be  unconscious  of  her  friends  and  surround 
ings  and  live  in  some  wild  dream  of  court  life  or  his 
toric  scenes.  So  Mary  put  on  the  strait-jacket,  which 
was  always  kept  in  readiness,  and  with  sorrowful  tears 
they  walked  along  the  New  River,  and  past  the  pretty 
town  of  Islington,  to  the  asylum,  where  she  remained 
for  six  weeks. 

Charles  returned  to  his  home,  where  Coleridge  had 
already  yielded  to  his  tempter,  and  was  lying  in  the 
wild-eyed  stupor  of  his  opium  dreams.  For  weeks 
Charles  watched  his  friend,  who  was  paying  for  the  long 
strain  of  the  previous  weeks  in  misery  and  sleepless 
wretchedness. 

Faithfully  Lamb  went  to  his  daily  tasks  at  India 
House,  from  wakeful,  trying  nights  with  Coleridge, 


228       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

until  his  own  nerves  could  no  longer  bear  the  strain. 
Reluctantly  he  let  Coleridge  return  to  the  miserable 
garret  over  the  printing-presses  of  the  "  Courier " 
office,  and  ran  off  to  Cambridge  for  a  short  rest  in  the 
companionship  of  his  dear  friend  Thomas  Manning. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

POETS    AND    THEIR    MUSIC. 

The  Poets — who,  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight,  by  heavenly  lays  ! 

Oh !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs, 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 

WORDSWORTH. 

TOWARDS  spring,  Sir  Humphry  Davy  insisted  upon 
Coleridge  delivering  a  second  course  of  lectures.  The 
last  course  had  been  a  great  success,  and  the  Royal 
Society  wanted  to  engage  the  popular  lecturer  again. 

Coleridge,  as  before,  shrank  from  the  ordeal,  fear 
ing  to  trust  himself.  But  again  his  friends  insisted 
and  persuaded,  reminding  him  of  his  brilliant  success. 
He  reluctantly  yielded  to  their  entreaties. 

The  hour  for  the  first  lecture  came.  Coleridge  was 
not  there.  The  hall  was  crowded,  but  the  tardy  lec 
turer  did  not  appear.  A  messenger  was  hastily  sent 
to  his  room,  and  found  him  in  a  stupor,  with  staring 
eyes,  baked  lips,  and  incoherent  speech. 

Sir  Humphry  announced  that  the  lecture  would 
be  postponed  on  account  of  "  sudden  illness  "  of  the 
lecturer.  The  disappointed  audience  was  sympathetic, 
and  hoped  he  would  be  well  enough  for  the  next  week's 
lecture. 

The  unmelodious  buzzing  and  cawing  of  a  collection 
of  human  beings  took  a  minor  tone,  and  there  were 


230       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

everywhere  expressions  of  the  greatest  interest  in  the 
unfortunate  sufferer,  whom  they  supposed  to  be  simply 
attacked  by  an  acute  illness. 

Lamb  hastened  to  his  friend's  room  and  was  shocked 
and  indignant. 

"  How  d-d-dare  you  throw  away  your  last  chance 
th-  th-thus  ?  You  know  this  is  the  f-f-foundation  for 
a  new  life  f-f-for  you !  "  he  exclaimed,  despairingly. 
"  Oh,  Esteecee  !  oh,  my  friend  !  "  he  pleaded,  "d-d-do 
make  another  effort !  You  d-d-did  so  well  last  winter. 
Do  f-f-fight  against  your  w-w-weakness." 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot,"  sobbed  Coleridge.  "  I  could 
even  now  charm  a  roomful  of  people,  yet  I  cannot 
break  my  fetters  !  " 

"  You  c-can,  and  you  sh-sh-shall  ! "  exclaimed 
Lamb,  and  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  Coleridge  following 
his  example.  The  two  friends  wrestled  in  prayer,  until 
a  great  calm  fell  upon  Coleridge,  and  he  felt  he  was 
strengthened  against  his  weakness. 

The  prayerful  spirit  lasted,  and  he  earnestly  prepared 
his  lectures,  and  when  the  day  came  he  poured  out 
his  wondrous  eloquence  as  before.  He  pictured  Shake 
speare  and  his  times,  and  quoted  from  him,  commenting 
and  expounding,  until  his  spellbound  audience  almost 
feared  to  breathe  for  fear  of  losing  a  word.  He  really 
looked  ill  and  pale,  and  his  mouth  was  parched,  yet 
this  scarcely  interfered  with  the  man's  eloquence. 

Samuel  Rogers  invited  Coleridge  and  Lamb  to  a 
poets'  dinner,  as  Wordsworth  was  visiting  him  at  the 
time.  Tom  Moore  and  Lord  Byron  were  also  at  the 
dinner.  Rogers  and  Wordsworth  had  been  friends  for 

O 

some  time,  and  the  rich  poet  was  fond  of  gathering  his 
brother  poets  around  him,  although  his  sharp  tongue 


POETS  AND  THEIR  MUSIC.  231 

would  sometimes  make  keen  thrusts  at  his  friends' 
peculiarities. 

Coleridge  was  glad  to  measure  swords  with  the 
author  of  "  Pleasures  of  Memory."  In  parrying  some  of 
Rogers'  thrusts,  he  was  more  like  his  old  self  than  he 
had  seemed  for  years.  But  Lamb  was  rather  over 
whelmed  by  the  gilt  and  glitter  of  his  surroundings. 
He  said  to  Rickman,  afterwards  : 

"  The  silver  plate  and  1-1-lights  d-d-dazzled  me.  I 
f-f-felt  as  though  I  had  stumbled  into  the  B-B-Bank 
of  England.  And  the  s-s-servants,  those  stately  gen 
tlemen  in  gold  lace  and  calves,  that  were  f-f-forever 
changing  the  plates  and  handing  d-d-dishes, — I  w-wanted 
to  apologize  for  the  endless  trouble  I  was  g-giving. 
Their  great  b-b-bulk  and  s-s-solemn  silence  g-gave  me 
a  Liliputian  feeling ;  they  s-seemed  so  vastly  alder- 
manic.  Rogers  is  used  to  this  sort  of  thing ;  and 
T-Tom  Moore  and  B-B-Byron  and  the  rest  of  that 
s-s-set  take  it  very  philosophically.  B-b-but  it  sp-sp- 
spoiled  my  appetite." 

At  this  dinner  the  poets  freely  discussed  some  young 
writers  who  were  finding  favor  with  the  London  world. 
Thomas  Campbell,  the  young  Scotchman  who  had 
carried  off  all  the  University  honors  at  Glasgow,  had 
written  "  The  Soldier's  Dream  "  and  "  Hohenlinden  ;  " 
and  lately  his  "  Pleasures  of  Hope  "  had  attracted  much 
notice. 

Rogers,  with  his  usual  acerbity,  said,  in  discussing 
him  :  "  He  is  a  fine  stripling  and  has  a  touch  of  true 
poetic  afflatus ;  but  he  carries  his  head  in  the  clouds. 
His  *  Rainbow '  is  a  fine  piece  of  poetic  diction  ;  but 
the  jangle  of  '  Lord  Ullin's  Daughter '  might  have  come 
from  a  school-boy." 


232       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  I  cannot  understand  his  popularity,  nor  why  that 
yarn-spinner,  Walter  Scott,  wins  such  applause  for 
his  pretty  fancies,"  said  Wordsworth.  ...  "  *  Black- 
wood's  '  and  the  *  Edinburgh  Review  '  laud  these  young 
coxcombs  to  the  heavens,  while  they  treat  my  sonnets 
and  descriptions  of  my  native  woodlands  with  scorn  !  I 
have  made  no  reply  to  their  abuse ;  but  when  I  see  the 
blunders  of  those  who  profess  to  be  critics  of  English 
poetry,  I  confess  I  hold  the  critics  of  to-day  as  the 
veriest  penny-a-liners,  who  truckle  to  aristocrats  and 
bow  to  the  passing  fashion,"  added  Wordsworth, 
hotly. 

Lamb  and  Coleridge  looked  with  some  alarm  at 
Rogers  during  this  tirade  against  his  friends  Jeffrey 
and  Henry  Brougham  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review." 

But  Rogers  let  the  thrust  pass,  only  saying  : 

"  There  is  a  blindness  that  pays  better  than  using  a 
microscope  upon  the  wrong  object.  They  soon  found 
that  I  could  hit  back,  when  they  commenced  tearing 
me  to  pieces,  and  I  have  since  found  the  critics  very 
courteous." 

"  They  certainly  could  find  little  to  sharpen  their 
1-lancets  upon  in  the  '  P-pleasures  of  Memory,'  "  said 
Lamb.  "  For  in-more  elegant  English  and  m-m-more 
beautiful  thoughts  seldom  m-m-meet  us  in  these 
days." 

"  I  thank  you,  friend  Lamb,  for  your  kind  opinion. 
The  appreciation  of  a  man  of  letters  is  not  to  be  de 
spised.  I  can  fully  return  the  compliment  upon  certain 
articles  in  the  '  Morning  Post '  and  the  magazines  which 
I  am  pleased  to  learn  are  yours,"  said  Rogers.  "  We 
were  speaking  of  them  at  Lady  Holland's  the  other 
day,  and  you  will  find  yourself  famous  some  time. 


POETS  AND  THEIR  MUSIC.  233 

Though  it  is  seldom  one  in  an  unknown  set  becomes 
an  oracle  in  London,"  he  added. 

Charles  Lamb's  face  was  a  study  during  this  some 
what  modified  praise.  His  fine  eyes  beamed,  and  a 
flush  rose  upon  his  olive  cheek,  at  the  unexpected 
commendation.  But  at  the  snobbish  turn  to  the  com 
pliment,  he  said,  with  one  of  his  winning  smiles :  "  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  c-c-claim  kinship  with  the  L-L-London 
aristocracy.  I  leave  that  to  those  whose  s-s-silver  spoon 
was  b-born  with  them.  But  for  g-genius,  such  as  our 
L-L-Lake  poets  p-p-possess,  not  London  or  its  p-p- 
palaces  can  elevate  it.  It  sh-sh-shines,  and  all  the  world 
will  see,  after  these  earth  d-d-damps  are  cleared  away. 
The  L-L-London  critics  and  l-l-literati  cannot  quench 
or  make  the  r-r-radiance  of  true  g-g-genius." 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  Rogers,  turning  to  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge,  with  a  smile  rare  to  his  cynical  face.  "  I 
believe  the  champion  is  right.  I  have  found  genuine 
delight  in  '  The  Ancient  Mariner/  and  am  most  anx 
ious  to  hear  '  Christabel,'  which  Talfourd  and  Wm. 
Hazlitt,  who  sometimes  breakfast  with  me,  think  quite 
remarkable." 

"  Could  you  not  recite  it  ?  "  said  Lamb,  looking  plead 
ingly  at  Coleridge  ;  Rogers  and  the  others  added  their 
requests,  and  Coleridge,  with  heightened  flash  in  the 
luminous  gray  eyes,  commenced  : 

"  The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray, 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May  ; 
And  the  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 

The  weird  story  and  exquisite  descriptions  held  the 
listeners  spellbound,  as  with  radiant  eye  and  flushed 
cheek  Coleridge  recited  it  in  his  rich  tones,  and  the 


234      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

hints  of  Geraldine's  strange  origin  and  influence  seemed 
doubly  mystical  when  told  in  Coleridge's  dramatic  way. 
The  spell  upon  Sir  Leoline  was  growing  exciting ; 
Rogers'  face  showed  its  effect  on  him.  But  when  the 
climax  was  reached,  and  the  loving  father  and  child 
were  being  parted  by  the  deadly  spell — so  weird,  yet 
so  resembling  mere  magnetic  influence — Rogers  cried  : 
"  Admirable  !  splendid  !  " 

Then,  as  Coleridge  stopped,  he  said :  "  Well,  finish 
it !  finish  it !  Did  she  succeed — the  snake-woman,  so 
like  her  sisters  of  to-day  ?  " 

"  That  is  all  I  have  completed,"  said  Coleridge,  look 
ing  somewhat  confused. 

"  What !  have  you  left  that  glorious  poem  incom 
plete  ? "  asked  Rogers,  in  amazement.  "  Sit  down 
this  night,  and  finish  it.  It  will  make  your  fortune." 

"  My  fortune  !  "  thundered  Coleridge  scornfully. 
"  Do  you  find  a  muse  can  be  won  by  gold  or  power  ? 
Nay  !  when  I  court  the  dainty  sprite,  I  feel  'tis  holy 
ground,  and  I  would  fain  put  off  my  shoes,  and  kneel 
as  to  a  goddess." 

"  Pish  !  a  goddess  !  A  fine  quill,  and  a  quiet  ingle- 
side,  with  an  ounce  of  calm  determination,  will  better 
conquer  your  goddess,"  sneered  Rogers.  "  But  whether 
you  clip  her  wings,  or  woo  her,  you  must  finish  this 
inscription — before  others  steal  the  fancy,"  he  added, 
with  a  sardonic  smile. 

"  Walter  Scott  has  already  poached  upon  my  prem 
ises  and  bagged  my  metre,"  said  Coleridge.  "  But  when 
I  feel  the  inner  voice  calling  me,  I  shall  complete 
*  Christabel,' — and  not  before,"  he  added,  glaring  at 
Lamb,  who  had  so  often  urged  the  same  thing. 

"  You  are  right,  Coleridge  ;   do  not  force  your  muse, 


POETS  AND   THEIR  MUSIC.  235 

only  listen  to  her  when  she  speaks,  "  said  Words 
worth. 

Rogers  uttered  a  scornful  "  Umph  ! "  and  the  talk 
drifted  into  other  channels.  Tom  Moore  and  the  young 
Byron  had  not  ventured  into  the  discussion  of  the  older 
men  ;  but  they  had  listened  attentively.  Byron's  dark 
eyes  flashed  sympathetically  at  Coleridge's  reply  ;  and 
Tom  Moore  knew  better  than  to  say  aught  contrary  to 
the  opinion  of  his  rather  difficult  patron,  Rogers. 

In  the  safe  chronicles  of  his  note-book  he  wrote  that 
evening :  "  Dined  with  Rogers — old  cock  unusually 
gracious  to  a  set  of  poetasters.  Some  heated  discussion 
about  the  muse,  in  which  Rogers  was  rather  quenched  by 
a  long,  lank,  spectacled  poet,  named  Wordsworth,  who 
has  written  some  prosy  stuff  on  clouds,  mountains,  etc. 
Note. — Must  look  up  his  writings — the  critics  have  killed 
them.  His  friend,  Coleridge,  is  a  queer  chap,  who 
lectured  at  R.  S.  and  seemed  likely  to  capture  society, 
but  failed  afterwards  for  some  reason.  He  is  one  of 
those  idealists  who  takes  poetry  and  life  hard.  Queer 
little  chap  with  droll  stammer,  named  Lamb,  actually 
struck  spurs  with  the  game-cock,  and  came  off — second 
best.  Had  a  dig  and  struck  back.  One  meets  strange 
people  at  Rogers'.  Mem. — Must  describe  scene  to 
Lady  Holland." 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE    HISSED    DRAMA. HOPES    AND    FEARS. 

The  tenets  which  distinguished  our  society  (of  damned  authors), 
and  which  every  man  among  us  is  bound  to  hold  for  gospel,  are  : 
"  That  the  public  or  mob  in  all  ages  have  been  a  set  of  blind, 
deaf,  obstinate,  senseless,  illiterate  savages.  That  no  man  of 
genius  in  his  senses  would  be  ambitious  of  pleasing  such  a  capri 
cious,  ungrateful  rabble.  That  the  only  legitimate  end  of  writing 
for  them  is  to  pick  their  pockets;  and  that  failing,  we  are  at  full 
liberty  to  vilify  them  and  abuse  them  as  much  as  ever  we  think 

fit That  the  terms  '  courteous  reader'  and  '  candid  critic, ' 

having  given  rise  to  false  notions  .  .  .  should  be  forever  abolished, 
etc.,  etc." 

CHARLES  LAMB. — Essay  on  Hissing. 

LAMB  had  no  such  scruples  as  Coleridge  about 
courting  his  muse.  He  had  been  scribbling  poems, 
essays,  sketches,  scraps,  yes,  even  poems,  for  the  Lon 
don  magazines,  and  the  "  Daily  Courier,"  and  any 
paper  that  would  pay  him.  He  dotted  down  his  fun 
and  fancies  upon  bill-heads  and  letter-backs,  and  even 
upon  bits  of  wrapping  paper  saved  from  parcels ;  for 
Charles  and  Mary  were  frugal  people,  and  wasted 
nothing.  He  was  too  glad  to  add  a  few  shillings  to 
their  empty  coffers  to  be  fastidious  about  his  subject. 
But  whatever  he  wrote  was  in  a  style  so  entirely  unique, 
that  his  scribblings  found  a  ready  market  where  his 
friend's  deeper  and  more  serious  articles  were  rejected 
or  forgotten. 


THE  HISSED  DRAMA.  237 

He  had  written  a  farce  which  he  called  "  Mr.  H.," 
and  had  given  it  to  Charles  Kemble,  hoping  he  would 
play  it  at  Drury  Lane.  But  the  Kembles  were  in  a 
world  of  trouble  over  the  debts  and  expenses  of  the 
theater,  and  the  farce  was  thrust  aside  and  forgotten. 

Meantime  Mary  Lamb's  many  illnesses  and  flights  to 
the  asylum  had  so  drained  their  scanty  income,  that 
the  India-House  clerk  determined  to  jog  Kemble's 
memory  about  "  Mr.  H." 

Mr.  Kemble  received  this  quaint  little  message  : 

"  DEAR  KEMBLE, 

"  '  Mr.  H.'  has  been  in  a  trance  these  twelve  months,  in 
the  custody  of  one  Charles  Kemble,  of  Newman  Street. 
His  friends  and  relatives  being  uneasy  at  his  long 
absence,  desire  information  as  to  his  condition.  We 
hope  he  is  improving,  and  have  reason  to  think  that 
the  long  continuance  may  augur  a  favorable  result. 
"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  CHARLES  LAMB  &  Co." 

Kemble,  feeling  rather  ashamed  of  his  delinquency 
regarding  his  friend's  play,  decided  to  have  it  brought 
out.  It  was  carefully  studied  and  well  placed  upon  the 
boards,  the  dacqueurs  were  in  readiness,  and  tickets 
were  sent  to  the  Lambs  and  a  certain  number  of  their 
friends. 

Charles  and  Mary  had  confidently  counted  upon  its 
success,  and  Lamb  had  written  very  hopefully  to  Thomas 
Manning  and  others  of  the  many  uses  he  would  find 
for  the  hundred  pounds  he  expected  to  receive  from  it. 

With  all  an  author's  pride  in  his  work,  and  nervous 
ness  over  its  first  appearance,  Lamb  with  Mary  pro- 


238       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

ceeded  early  to  the  theater  and  proudly  took  the  con 
spicuous  places  reserved  for  them  in  the  pit.  Mary 
looked  as  gentle  and  placid  as  ever,  yet  she  could  not 
conceal  her  admiration  for  her  gifted  brother  ;  and 
Charles's  brown  eyes  beamed  upon  the  audience — his 
audience.  True,  it  was  but  the  afterpiece.  But  they 
scarcely  knew  what  the  main  play  was,  so  excited  were 
they  over  their  first  appearance  in  public.  The  pro 
logue  was  widely  applauded,  as  it  deserved.  Lamb's 
friends  turned  to  him,  and  the  applause  lasted  until  he 
was  forced  to  bow  his  recognition  of  the  honor.  Cheers 
filled  the  building.  From  pit  to  gallery,  all  was  excite 
ment.  But  as  the  play  progressed,  from  the  pit,  where 
the  link-boys  and  coachmen  assembled  in  those  days, 
certain  ominous  growls  fell  upon  the  ears.  Shouts  of 
"  Stop  it !  "  "  Smother  that  out !  "  "  Where's  the  fun  ?  " 
sent  cold  chills  down  our  friends'  backs.  The  clac- 
queurs  clapped  vigorously  at  every  possible  point ; 
but  audible  yawns  and  hisses  fell  like  hot  bullets  upon 
actors  and  audience. 

It  was  useless  for  the  friends  of  the  play  to  applaud 
"  Mr.  H.'s  "  rather  heavy  fun.  The  louder  they 
clapped,  the  louder  grew  the  groans.  Lamb  glanced 
at  Mary,  fearing  for  her  nerves,  and,  smiling  cheerily, 
as  a  fresh  burst  of  hisses  arose,  he  joined  in  the  horrid 
din,  and  then  said,  "  Well,  Bridget,  '  Mr.  H.'  is  a 
lumbering  f-fool,  and  I'll  have  the  s-s-satisfaction  of 
being  the  f-f-first  author  who  has  d-d-damned  his  own 
play.  And  b-by  Heavens  !  it  d-d-deserves  it !  " 

Poor  Mary's  tears  were  slowly  rolling  down  her 
cheeks,  and  without  waiting  for  further  demonstrations, 
the  doomed  author  and  his  sister  slipped  out  of  the 
theater. 


THE  HISSED  DRAMA.  239 

"  Oh,  brother,  how  awful  those  hisses  were,"  sobbed 
Mary  ;  "  I  could  only  think  of  a  den  of  snakes." 

"  Pooh,  P-Polly  !  don't  take  it  so  to  heart,"  said  Lamb, 
smiling  grimly  at  his  defeat.  "  It  is  b-b-better  to  be 
a  d-d-damned  author  than  a  d-d-damned  fool.  An 
author  can  t-t-try  again,  but  a  f-f-fool  has  no  chance 
at  all." 

Nevertheless  his  letter  to  Manning,  describing  the 
impression  of  those  hisses,  and  his  essay  on  "  Hissing 
at  Theaters,"  written  years  afterwards,  showed  how 
deep  was  the  sting. 

To  Thomas  Manning  he  wrote  : 

"  DEAR  MANNING, — I  suppose  you  know  my  farce 
was  damned.  The  noise  still  rings  in  my  ears !  Were 
you  ever  in  the  pillory — being  damned  is  something 

like   that In  general  ....  my  spirits   are  pretty 

good ;  but  I  have  my  depressions,  black  as  a  smith's 
beard — Vulcan — Stygian.  At  such  times  I  have  re 
course  to  my  pipe,  which  is  like  not  being  home  to  a 
dun.  He  comes  again  with  tenfold  bitterness  next 
day.  ...  So  I  go  creeping  on  since  I  was  lamed  with 
that  cursed  fall  from  the  top  of  Drury  Lane  Theater 
into  the  pit,  something  more  than  a  year  ago  !  "  * 

This  was  written  about  a  week  afterwards,  yet  his 
quaint  way  of  expressing  the  weariness  of  the  disap 
pointment  was  understood  by  his  friend.  He  also 
wrote :  "  That  hiss  was  like  mad  geese  with  noisy 
unction,  like  bears,  mows,  mops,  like  apes,  sometimes 
snakes,  that  hissed  me  into  madness.  'Twas  like 
Anthony's  Temptations.  Mercy  on  us,  that  God  should 
give  His  favorite  children,  men,  mouths  to  speak  with, 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


240        THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

to  discourse  rationally,  to  promise  smoothly,  to  flatter 
agreeably,  to  encourage  warmly,  to  sing  with,  to  drink 
with,  to  kiss  with,  and  that  they  should  turn  them  into 
mouths  of  adders,  bears,  wolves,  hyenas,  to  hiss  like 
tempests  and  emit  breath. . .  .  like  distillation  of  aspic 
poison  ;  to  asperse  and  vilify  the  innocent  labors  of 
their  fellow-creatures,  who  are  desirous  to  please  them. 
Heaven  be  pleased  to  make  their  breath  stink  and 
the  teeth  rot  out  of  them  all !  Make  them  a  reproach 
to  all  that  pass  by  them,  to  loll  out  their  tongues  at  them  ! 
*  Blind  moths  !'  as  Milton  somewhere  calls  them  .  .  .  . 

"  Brahm's  singing  bewitched  me  !  I  follow  him  as 
the  boys  followed  Tom  the  piper.  He  cures  me  of 
melancholy  as  David  cured  Saul  ,  but  I  don't  throw 
stones  at  him  as  Saul  did  at  David  in  payment. 

"I  was  insensible  to  music  until  he  gave  me  a  new 
sense.  .  .  . 

Brahm's  singing,  when  impassioned,  is  finer  than 
Mrs.  Siddons'  or  Mr.  Kemble's  acting.  .  .  .  Coleridge 
delivered  two  lectures,  but  was  sick,  and  omitted  the 
other  two.  He  sits  up  two  pairs  of  stairs,  at  the 
1  Courier  '  Office,  and  receives  visitors." 

Thus  did  he  ease  his  heart,  by  pouring  out  the  pent- 
up  wrath  and  disgust  to  his  sympathizing  friend.  And 
he  let  the  whip  of  his  sarcasm  fly,  in  the  essay  that 
pictures  the  various  serpent-hisses  of  critics  and  audi 
ence.  "The  common  English  snakes  of  the  auditory, 
who,  having  no  critical  venom  in  themselves,  stay  till 
they  hear  others  hiss,  and  then  join  in  for  company.  .  . 
The  Rattlesnake — your  obstreperous  talking  critics — 
the  hiss  always  originates  with  these.  .  .  .  The  Whip- 
snake — he  that  lashes  the  poor  author  the  next  day  in 
"*  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


THE  HISSED  DRAMA.  241 

the  newspapers.  .  .  .  The  Deaf-Adder — that  portion  of 
the  spectators  who,  not  finding  the  first  act  of  a  piece 
answer  to  their  preconceived  notions,  positively  thrust 
their  fingers  in  their  ears,  etc.  As  the  degree  of 
malignancy  in  people  vary  according  as  they  have 
more  or  less  of  the  Old  Serpent  (the  father  of  hisses)  in 
their  composition. "^ 

As  "  Mr.  H."  failed,  and  that  hope  perished,  Charles 
and  Mary  tried  to  think  of  some  new  scheme  for  adding 
to  their  slender  means. 

Mary  looked  up  from  her  writing  one  evening,  as 
Charles  came  in  from  India  House.  "  Brother  !  I  have 
an  idea." 

"  Well,  write  it  d-d-down,  Polly  ;  you  may  never  f-f-find 
another,"  he  said,  lovingly  pinching  her  ear. 

11 1  am  going  to  write  some  stories,"  she  said,  flush 
ing,  and  looking  anxiously  into  his  eyes. 

"  Whew  !  And  after  they  are  written,  who  will  p-p-pub- 
lish  them  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  attended  to  that  part  first,"  she  answered, 
proudly.  "  Mr.  Godwin  wants  some  children's  stories 
from  Shakespeare,  and  I  have  promised  to  do  it,  and  I 
have  already  written  'The  Merchant  of  Venice,'"  she 
said,  holding  a  rather  scratchy-looking  manuscript  up  to 
his  astonished  gaze. 

"W-well  done,  little  w-w-woman,  let  me  be  s-silent 
partner." 

And  together  the  two  wrote  the  charming  "  Shake 
spearean  Tales  "  that  have  been  the  classic  treasures  of 
little  ones  ever  since  the  year  that  "  Mr.  H."  was 
damned. 

Mary  also  wrote  "  Mrs.  Leicester's  School,"  a  pretty 
*  "  Essays  of  Elia." — On  Hissing  in  Theaters. 

16 


242       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

fancy  which  still  holds  its  place  in  the  world.  This 
unpretentious  work  of  Mary  Lamb,  assisted  by  her 
brother,  brought  them  £200.  But  her  satisfaction  in 
thus  being  able  to  add  her  share  to  their  income  was 
dashed  to  the  ground  by  her  old  enemy,  that  crept  in 
upon  her  at  all  times  and  seasons. 

Among  the  many  friends  who  frequented  the  Lambs' 
hospitable  rooms  was  William  Hazlitt,  the  critic  and 
satirist.  Hazlitt  always  found,  in  the  Lambs,  the  restful 
friendship  his  perturbed  spirit  craved.  There  he  could 
lash  the  politicians  of  the  day,  or  extol  the  despised 
Napoleon  with  unchecked  freedom,  only  rousing  a  smile 
or  witticism  from  the  impartial  Lamb. 

Another  friend  was  Sarah  Stoddart,  a  bright,  way 
ward  girl,  sister  of  John  Stoddart,  Queen's  Advocate 
at  Malta,  who  had  lately  been  knighted.  Sarah  was 
always  in  some  love-scrape.  She  used  her  bright  eyes 
with  too  effective  power,  and,  like  many  another  coquette, 
complained  that  her  friends  always  turned  lovers,  and  so 
deprived  her  of  their  society  by  getting  themselves  re 
jected.  To  her  surprise,  the  bright-eyed,  witty  brother 
of  her  friend  Mary  Lamb  never  succumbed  to  her 
charms.  Despite  her  long  visits  and  quick  repartee  to 
his  incessant  puns,  he  showed  but  a  brotherly  interest 
in  Miss  Sarah,  which  made  his  friendship  the  more 
piquant. 

But  among  the  many  visitors  at  Mitre  Court,  on  those 
pleasant  Wednesday  evenings,  the  moody,  brilliant 
Hazlitt  made  the  deepest  impression  upon  her  suscep 
tible  heart.  Lamb  watched  the  increasing  friendliness 
between  the  two  with  much  amusement  and  some  alarm, 
not  knowing  whether  this  flirtation  was  mere  coquetry 
or  something  more  serious. 


THE  HISSED  DRAMA.  2 43 

Mary  also  watched  the  course  of  affairs  with  keen 
interest.  She  had  long  been  in  Sarah's  confidence, 
and  had  sympathized  deeply  in  several  tangled  love 
troubles.  AlthougL  Mary  knew  that  lovers  and 
marriage  could  never  be  factors  in  her  own  life,  she 
had  a  woman's  relish  for  the  romantic,  and  a  warm 
sympathy  for  the  hopes  and  fears  that  accompanied  the 
love  episodes  in  the  lives  of  her  friends.  They  knew 
just  where  to  go  for  advice  and  help  in  their  troubles, 
and  the  demure,  soft-eyed  woman,  who  dared  never 
think  of  appropriating  man's  love  for  herself,  in  her 
blighted  life  kept  her  heart  warm  and  young  by 
sharing  her  friends'  hopes  and  desires. 

Charles  determined  to  save  Hazlitt  an  irrevocable 
mistake,  if  his  evident  admiration  were  not  returned. 
So  one  day,  after  an  unusually  pleasant  evening,  he 
said  to  their  guest : 

"  Well,  Sarah,  the  constant  errands  of  Mr.  Hazlitt 
after  b-books,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  are  a  new  ph-ph-phase  of 
his  character.  He  is  always  espousing  lost  causes  and 
g-g-getting  himself  into  d-d-difficulties — has  a  mania 
for  being  on  the  wrong  s-s-side  of  everything,  and 
trying  to  wrench  it  r-r-right-side-out.  I  hope  he  is 
not  becoming  interested  in  another  f-f-fatality  ?  "  he 
asked,  looking  seriously  at  the  blushing  girl. 

"  How  do  I  know  what  Mr.  Hazlitt  is  doing  ? "  she 
asked,  looking  guiltily  at  Mary.  "  Has  he  time  to 
spare  from  his  lost  illusions  for  any  other  subject  ? " 

"  He  s-s-seems  to  find  ample  t-t-time  ;  I  hope  he  is 
not  p-p-pursuing  another  ignis fatuus"  he  replied. 

"  I  hope  not,  if  he  is  not  able  to  take  better  care  of 
himself  than  you  seem  to  fear,"  said  Sarah,  laughing. 

Since  her  friends  thought  the  matter  so  serious  with 


244      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Hazlitt,  the  warning  made  her  look  more  carefully  into 
her  own  heart.  She  really  did  not  know  how  to  answer 
her  self-questioning.  She  had  seen  enough  of  his 
cynicism  and  impetuosity  to  fear  a  life-union  with  so 
violent  a  man.  Yet  she  admired  him  more  than  any  one 
she  knew.  She  disliked  his  moody  spells,  yet  she 
found  that  she  held  the  magic  key  to  unlock  the  closed 
doors  of  his  heart.  She  wavered,  and  we  all  know  when 
a  woman  wavers  she  is  lost. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

AMID   OLD   FRIENDS  AND   SCENES. 

And  now,  beloved  Stowcy  !  I  behold 

Thy  church-tower,  and,  methinks,  the  four  huge  elms 

Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend, 

And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 

Is  my  own  lowly  cottage.  .  .  . 

My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  cot — 

Thy  jasmine  and  thy  window-peeping  rose, 

And  myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea-air. 

And  I  shall  sigh  fond  wishes,  sweet  abode ! 

Ah, — had  none  greater !    And  that  all  had  such 

It  might  be  so, — but  the  time  is  not  yet. 

Speed  it,  O  Father  !  let  Thy  kingdom  come  ! 

COLERIDGE. 

AFTER  his  Shakespeare  and  Milton  lectures,Coleridge 
had  fled  from  London  to  Grasmere,  where  Wordsworth 
and  Dorothy  warmly  welcomed  him.  Sarah,  hearing 
that  her  husband  was  at  Wordsworth's,  came  also,  and 
spent  some  days  there,  hoping  to  woo  her  wanderer 
back  to  his  deserted  home. 

But  Coleridge  was  not  ready  to  settle  down  at  Kes- 
wick,  under  Southey's  reproachful  eye.  He  shrank 
from  the  implied  reproof  in  Southey's  incessant  literary 
toil  amid  his  heavy  family  cares. 

Their  old  Stowey  friends,  the  Pooles,  had  written  the 
Coleridges  often,  begging  a  visit.  So  together,  with 
little  Derwent  and  the  tiny  Sara,  they  took  the  coach 


246       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

for  Stowey.  Thomas  Poole  welcomed  them  eagerly  to 
the  well-remembered  home,  and  the  little  pique  he  had 
felt  at  Coleridge's  long  silence  melted  away  at  sight  of 
his  wan  face  and  broken,  spiritless  manner. 

After  a  week  amid  the  pleasant  old  scenes,  Cole 
ridge's  depression  yielded  to  the  sunshine  of  Poole's 
society.  His  rheumatism  was  so  much  better  that  he 
seldom  used  the  fatal  drug.  Sarah  watched  him 
tenderly,  and  suppressed  every  word  or  look  that  might 
suggest  anything  unpleasant. 

The  little  children,  so  like  him,  were  a  sweet  comfort, 
and  it  was  a  pretty  picture  to  see  the  tiny  maiden  in 
her  mob  cap  and  quaint  long  gown,  toddling  everywhere 
after  "  Papa,"  who  shuffled  along,  timing  his  heavy 
step  to  her  tiny  footsteps. 

Sarah  watched  them  with  breathless  interest,  hoping 
against  hope  that  at  last,  through  his  little  daughter,  the 
restless  husband  and  father  would  be  lured  back  to  the 
comfort  of  home  life. 

Poole's  hopes  of  reforming  the  "  Poor  Laws,"  and 
so  benefiting  the  masses  upon  a  large  scale,  had  been 
so  nearly  checkmated  by  the  unsettled  state  of  the 
country  after  the  deaths  of  Pitt  and  Fox,  that  he 
returned  to  his  quiet  cottage  at  Stowey,  and  turned  his 
attention  more  than  ever  to  the  poor  at  home.  Always 
ready  to  help  all  in  distress,  he  had  planned  a  "  Friendly 
Society "  for  working  women,  to  give  them  shelter 
during  childbirth,  widowhood,  and  old  age,  without 
driving  them  to  the  plane  of  pauperism.  The  whole 
community  subscribed,  the  poor  adding  their  mites  to 
the  large  donations  of  the  rich. 

Coleridge  and  Sarah  took  great  interest  in  this 
scheme,  and  as  the  opening  ceremonies  occurred  whilst 


AMID  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  SCENES.  247 

they  were  visiting  Poole,*   Coleridge  wrote  the  motto 
for  this  first  "  Female  Aid  Society  "  : 

"  Foresight  and  Union, 

Linked  by  Christian  Love, 
Helped  by  the  good  below 
And  Heaven  above." 


They  had  a  long  procession,  with  banners,  headed  by 
all  the  ladies  of  Stowey.  After  the  meeting,  the  gentle 
men  drank  tea  with  them.  The  family  of  John  Poole, 
the  Wedgwoods,  and  the  Cottles  from  Bristol  were  over ; 
and  amid  all  these  dear  friends  of  their  early-married 
life  the  Coleridges  entered  joyously  into  the  pleasant 
celebration  of  the  new  charity. 

From  this  beginning,  many  "  Women's  Aids  "  and 
"  Exchanges  "  have  emanated.  To-day,  England  and 
America  are  teeming  with  "  Friendly  Inns,"  Homes,  and 
Retreats  for  helpless,  sick,  or  aged  women,  and  they 
should  remember  that  one  kind,  generous,  old  bachelor 
in  quiet  little  Stowey  started  the  ball  rolling,  and 
Coleridge  wrote  their  first  motto. 

Until  this  visit,  Thomas  Poole  had  never  understood 
the  cause  of  the  change  which  had  crept  over  Coleridge. 
He  now  saw  with  dismay  the  shattered  nerves  and 
weak  body,  with  the  once  great  mind  literally  chained 
to  it  by  the  unnatural  craving  for  opium.  He  felt  deeper 
pity  and  more  tender  love  than  ever,  and  determined 
to  make  a  great  effort  to  save  Coleridge  from  the  fatal 
habit.  He  watched  him,  entertained  him,  and  so 
guarded  him  from  ennui  and  despondency,  that  his 
health  improved  greatly,  and  the  drug  was  almost 

*  "  Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends." 


248       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

abandoned.      The  fortnight's  visit  was  prolonged  to 
several  months. 

After  the  happy  summer  among  her  old  friends 
under  the  pleasant  shelter  of  Poole's  hospitable  roof, 
Sarah  felt  it  was  quite  time  to  return  to  Keswick. 
Coleridge  had  again  been  written  to  about  delivering 
another  course  of  lectures  in  London,  during  the  fall. 
He  felt  so  much  better  and  so  much  more  hopeful 
that  he  willingly  consented,  and  they  bade  farewell  to 
their  kind  host. 

They  made  a  short  stay  in  Bristol,  where  De  Quincy 
joined  them ;  and  for  months  Poole  heard  nothing  of 
the  guests  who  had  spent  a  pleasant  summer  with 
him. 

After  Christmas,  a  letter  came  from  Sarah,  which 
rather  surprised  him  :  * 

"  Keswick,  Dec.  28,  1807. 
"  MY  DEAR  SIR,— 

"  If  Coleridge  has  not  written  to  you  lately,  I  guess, 
from  the  interest  you  have  always  taken  in  our  affairs, 
you  will  not  think  a  few  lines,  even  from  my  feeble 
pen,  an  unpardonable  intrusion.  But  where  shall  I 
begin  ?  I  cannot  endure  presupposing  you  have  never 
heard  anything  of  us  since  Coleridge  left  your  most 
hospitable  dwelling  ;  yet  what  is  more  likely  ?  When 
he  joined  us  at  Bristol  in  such  excellent  health  and 
improved  looks,  I  thought  of  clays  of  'Auld  Lang  Syne,' 
and  hoped  and  prayed  it  might  continue.  Alas  !  in 
three  or  four  days  it  was  all  over.  He  said  he  must  go 
to  town  immediately  about  the  lectures,  yet  he  staid 
three  weeks  without  another  word  about  removing,  and 
I  durst  not  speak,  lest  it  might  disarrange  him.  Mr. 

*  "  Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends." 


AMID  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  SCENES.  249 

De  Quincy,  who  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  Coleridge  in 
College  Street,  proposed  to  accompany  us  and  the 
children  into  Cumberland,  as  he  wished  to  pay  Words 
worth  and  Southey  a  visit.  This  was  a  pleasant  scheme 
for  me,  only  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  my  visits  to 
Birmingham  and  Liverpool.  Towards  the  end  of 
October  I  packed  up  everything — C.'s  things,  as  I 
thought,  for  London — and  we  all  left  Bristol.  We 
reached  Chester  the  third  night,  and  the  next  we 
reached  Eastham.  I  crossed  to  Liverpool. 

"  On  the  second  night  we  all  arrived  at  Grasmere,  at 
Wordsworth's,  and  they  wishing  us  to  stay  overnight, 
we  sent  back  the  chaise  to  Ambleside,  and  ordered  it 
for  the  next  afternoon.  At  Keswick  they  were  all  in 
expectation  of  us,  and  although  it  was  quite  dark,  they 
were  out  with  lanthorns. 

"Coleridge,  I  left  (as  I  thought)  ready  to  jump  into 
the  mail  for  London.  Lo  !  three  weeks  after,  I  received 
a  letter  from  him  dated  '  White  Horse  Stairs,  Piccadilly.' 
He  was  just  arrived  in  town  ;  had  been  ill  owing  to  wet 
clothes,  and  had  passed  three  weeks  in  Mr.  Morgan's 
house,  and  been  nursed  by  his  wife  and  sister  in  the 
kindest  manner. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"  SARAH  COLERIDGE." 

But  the  lectures  :  what  of  them  ?  They  had  been 
promised  for  the  early  course.  As  the  time  ap 
proached,  and  no  word  came  from  Coleridge,  Sir 
Humphry  Davy,  learning  he  was  at  Bristol,  wrote  him 
that  he  was  expected  to  lecture  the  next  week. 
He  started  from  Bristol,  as  we  know.  But  meeting 
friends  upon  the  coach,  he  gladly  accepted  their  invi- 


250       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

tation  to  stop  at  Calne  and  pay  them  a  short  visit.  He 
was  wet  from  riding  upon  the  outside  in  a  pouring  rain. 
He  could  escape  the  discomfort  of  further  travel  in  the 
rain,  and  still  be  in  time  for  those  tiresome  lectures, 
that  ever  pursued  him  with  relentless  persistence.  But 
alas  !  the  wet  clothes  brought  a  return  of  the  old 
rheumatism  and  gout,  and,  as  Sarah  wrote,  he  was 
utterly  helpless  for  weeks. 

The  lecture  day  came  and  no  Coleridge.  But  Mr. 
Morgan  wrote  of  his  condition  to  Sir  Humphry  Davy, 
whose  own  lectures  were  substituted  at  the  last  moment. 
Coleridge  was  placed  upon  the  list  for  the  later  course. 

He  returned  to  London  by  Christmas,  shattered, 
feeble,  with  swelled  and  aching  limbs,  and  more  than 
ever  under  the  spell  of  opium.  Only  that  relieved  his 
terrible  pain.  He  could  not  even  fight  against  it,  for 
fate  seemed  to  drive  him  right  into  his  enemy's  clutches. 
His  friends  saw  he  was  in  no  condition  to  lecture ;  but 
he  was  anxious  to  try.  At  the  appointed  time  he  ap 
peared,  and  lectured  upon  Dryden.  He  rambled  aim 
lessly  over  the  ground,  and  quoted  and  commented  ;  but 
the  old  charm  of  his  eloquence  was  gone.  Each  lecture 
was  less  consecutive  than  the  last.  His  parched  tongue 
almost  refused  to  move,  and  his  thick  utterance  won 
only  pity,  and  finally  but  scant  toleration.  Pity  is  but 
one  step  beyond  contempt,  and  soon  descends  to  disgust 
and  resentment.  So  the  once  popular  lecturer  lost  his 
place  through  the  misfortune  of  his  ill-health  and  its 
consequences. 

The  society  released  Coleridge  from  a  part  of  the 
lectures,  giving  him  ^"100  for  the  few  he  did  deliver. 
He  fled  once  more  to  the  comfort  and  shelter  of  Words 
worth's  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  WARP  AND  WOOF  OF  SEVERAL  LIVES. 

Flowers  are  lovely ;  love  is  flower-like ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  the  joys, that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  friendship,  love,  and  liberty  ! 
Ere  I  was  oldl 

Ere  I  was  old  !  ah,  woful  ere ! 
Which  tells  me  youth's  no  longer  here. 

COLERIDGE. 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT'S  courtship  had  progressed  so 
favorably  that  the  wedding  arrangements  were  being 
planned  and  discussed  by  Sarah  Stoddart  and  Mary 
Lamb. 

Sir  John  Stoddart  had  yielded  a  reluctant  consent, 
but  stipulated  that  the  marriage  was  to  take  place  from 
Sarah's  home,  rather  than  from  the  Lambs',  as  Sarah 
preferred.  Sarah  had  long  ago  gone  home  to  prepare 
for  her  wedding,  and  she  insisted  upon  Mary  being  her 
bridesmaid. 

"What  shall  I  wear?"  wrote  Mary;  "Manning  has 
sent  me  from  China  the  most  delicate  and  lovely  silk, 
just  tinted,  or  shall  I  wear  the  pretty  muslin  you  sprigged 
for  me  last  year  ?  I  have  always  kept  it  for  a  great 
occasion."  *  The  important  decision  was  finally  given 
to  the  China  silk. 

Mary  looked  very  pretty  in  the  unaccustomed  stylish 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb." — W.  C.  HAZLITT. 


252       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

gown  and  pelerine  of  creamy  pongee.  And  Sarah  was 
so  handsome  in  her  wedding-gown  of  delicately  em 
broidered  muslin  and  lace  as  to  completely  overwhelm 
the  shy  bridegroom. 

They  were  married  at  old  St.  Andrew's  Church, 
High  Holborn,  where  Lamb  and  his  friends  of  the 
"  Round  Table,"  and  the  Stoddarts'  more  aristocratic 
acquaintances,  assembled  to  witness  the  ceremony. 

The  absurdity  of  the  solemn  and  reserved  Hazlitt 
taking  a  wife,  and  being  the  prominent  feature  at  a 
fashionable  wedding,  so  upset  Lamb,  that  his  endeavors 
to  preserve  a  proper  bearing  were  fruitless.  He  nearly 
disgraced  himself  and  Mary  with  his  half-suppressed 
merriment,  which  was  but  too  contagious  to  all  in  his 
vicinity.  The  more  Rickman  and  William  Godwin 
scowled  at  him  for  his  levity,  the  more  difficult  it  be 
came  for  him  to  quiet  down.  He  afterwards  wrote  to 
Manning,  who  was  still  in  China : 

"When,  man  of  the  many  faces,  will  you  return 
from  contemplating  the  mandarins  and  riding  in  pal 
anquins  ?  Methinks  your  eyes  will  forever  have  that 
upward  squint  at  the  aft-side,  and  you  will  never 
bring  them  down  to  the  focus  of  ordinary  London 
acquaintances. 

"  Can  you  bring  your  imagination  to  bear  upon  William 
Hazlitt  as  a  Benedict  ?  He  has  captured  the  skittish 
Sarah  Stoddart,  and  the  wedding  was  quite  a  grand 
affair  at  Holborn  Church,  with  wedding  fixings,  and 
Mary  as  bridesmaid,  in  the  China  silk  you  sent  her. 
Hazlitt  was  terrified  enough  to  suit  a  hanging  on 
Tyburn  Hill,  with  himself  the  victim.  George  Dyer  was 
arrayed  in  those  antique  nankeen  trousers,  which  he 


THE  WARP  AND  WOOF  OF  SEVERAL  LIVES.  253 

fancies  clean  and  the  height  of  style  ;  but,  by  the  bells 
of  Edmonton,  they  are  encased  in  the  dust  of  ages, 
and  hang  like  ancient  battle-flags  around  their  poles. 
Dear  old  Dyer  twitched  in,  like  a  crab  shedding  its 
last  month's  coat,  murmuring  his  approbation  during 
the  service,  like  an  imprisoned  bumble-bee.  (He  has 
been  browsing  amid  the  book-stalls,  and  buying  anti 
quated  treasures  until  his  rooms  are  knee-deep  in 
books,  and  his  larder  is  bare  as  Mother  Hubbard's 
cupboard.) 

"  I  was  edified  as  usual  upon  solemn  occasions,  and 
came  so  near  disgracing  myself,  with  laughing  at  the 
incongruities,  that  I  feared  the  verger  would  usher  me 
out. — Yours,  C.  LAMB."* 

When  the  friends  gathered  around  the  whist-table 
on  the  following  Wednesday,  there  was  a  new  topic  for 
discussion.  The  new  gas  corporation  had  introduced 
gas-lamps  upon  Pall  Mall  in  place  of  the  usual  smok 
ing  oil-lamps. 

Of  course  Lamb  resented  such  an  innovation. 

"  G-g-gas  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  What  is  the  world 
coming  to  ?  These  experiments  with  the  b-b-bottled- 
up  st-st-stench  will  drive  us  out  of  London." 

"  Yes  !  it  was  not  enough  to  take  out  tinder  boxes, 
and  have  every  servant-wench  crying  for  lucifer 
matches,  but  they  must  blow  us  up  with  their  new 
fangled  gas,"  growled  Godwin. 

"  L-lucifer  matches  are  an  invention  of  the  d-d-devil," 
cried  Lamb,  "  and  I'll  none  of  them  !  " 

"  But  you  will  !  Sir  Knight  of  the  Olden  Time,"  said 
Francis  Jeffrey.  "  Mark  my  words  ;  you  will  live  to 

*  "  Life  and  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AiNGER. 


254      THE-  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

use  sulphur  matches,  and  we  will  yet  have  our  'rub 
bers  '  under  a  twenty-candle  power  gas-light.  The 
world  is  progressing,  man,  and  we  must  go  with  it." 

"  It  m-m-might  be  as  well  to  blow  up  some  of  those 
old  B-B-Bond  Street  dandies,"  retorted  Lamb. — "  It  will 
meantime  give  them  a  new  excuse  for  their  p-p-per- 
fumed  handkerchiefs,  for  the  st-st-stench  of  those 
lamps  is  unbearable." 

"  Perhaps  the  manufacturers  will  learn  some  better 
process  of  making  gas  without  odor,"  said  Jeffrey. 

"  G-g-gas  without  odor  would  be  like  f-f-fire  without 
f-f-flame,"  said  the  conservative  Lamb.  Any  innovation 
in  his  beloved  London  must  be  frowned  down.  "  It 
is  bad  enough  to  have  a  m-m-mad  King  and  a  d-d-dandy 
Regent  without  b-b-blowing  us  up  with  g-g-gas." 

"  Come,  Brother  Lamb,  don't  don  your  wolf-skin,  or 
we  shall  all  run.  Besides,  you  have  banished  politics," 
said  Rickman. 

"  Here's  to  Light,  Liberty,  and  L-Legitimacy,  then," 
cried  Lamb,  holding  up  his  smoking  punch.  They  fol 
lowed  his  example  and  enjoyed  their  whist  by  the 
sputtering  candles  as  much  as  if  they  had  had  a  festive 
illumination. 

During  this  winter,  Mary  Lamb  wrote  many  verses 
for  children,  some  wholesomely  didactic,  and  some 
merely  to  amuse.  Her  little  volume,  with  some  poems 
in  the  same  vein  by  Charles,  was  very  popular  and 
brought  them  quite  a  nice  little  income.  The  whole 
edition  was  sold  and  enjoyed  by  the  children  of  that  day. 
And  now,  nicety  years  later,  when  the  little  volumes 
have  been  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  and  lost  to 
sight,  an  interest  has  sprung  up  to  collect  all  the  writ 
ings  of  that  unpretending  sister  and  brother,  and  for 


THE  WARP  AND   WOOF  OF  SEVERAL  LIVES.  255 

long  this  little  book  seemed  out  of  existence  ;  when 
behold !  a  bachelor  in  Australia  had  all  his  old  books 
and  treasures  sent  him  from  his  early  English  home, 
and  in  recalling  childish  memories  and  delights,  over 
the  old  souvenirs,  he  found  a  copy  of  the  now  precious 
book. 

So,  in  the  whirligig  of  time,  some  who  have  been 
lowly  come  to  the  top  ;  and  many  who  have  shone 
brilliantly  in  their  day  go  into  the  depths  of  the  un 
known  and  are  extinguished.  And  who  can  tell  what 
his  future  destiny  may  be,  if  he  live  and  work  his  best  ? 
Charles  Lamb  scarcely  foresaw  that  his  odd  fancies 
and  antiquarian  reminiscences,  written  as  much  for 
necessary  money  as  for  amusement,  would,  in  half  a 
century,  become  classical  English  essays.  But  he  did 
prophesy  that  his  friends,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge, 
would  live  when  their  detractors  should  be  forgotten. 

Lamb  was  deeply  grieved  at  the  failure  of  Coleridge's 
lecture  on  the  English  Poets.  He  watched  him  tenderly 
and  encouraged  him  faithfully.  But  when  he  saw  the 
brilliant  talker  stumble  and  maunder  along,  with  most 
unusual  platitudes,  and  found  his  ideas  drag  as  pain 
fully  as  his  words,  he  realized  the  hopelessness  of  the 
struggle. 

Thomas  Poole,  hearing  of  Coleridge's  wretched  con 
dition,  wrote,  reminding  him  of  duty  and  opportunity, 
and  begging  him  to  bear  his  sufferings  rather  than  fly 
to  such  a  remedy  as  opium. 

He  answered  Poole  in  the  following  sad  lines : 
"  Let  the  eagle  bid  the  tortoise  sunward  soar. 
As  vainly  strength  speaks  to  a  broken  mind." 

He  wrote  further  :  "  In  truth,  I  have  been  for  years 
almost  a  paralytic  in  mind,  from  self-dissatisfaction — 


256       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

brooding  in  secret  anguish  over  what,  from  so  many 
baffled  agonies  of  effort,  I  had  thought  and  felt  to  be 
irremediable ;  but  which  yet,  from  moral  cowardice, 
and  a  strong  tyrannous  reluctance  to  make  any  painful 
concern  of  my  own  the  subject  of  discourse — a  reluc 
tance,  strong  in  exact  proportion  to  my  esteem  and  af 
fection  for  the  persons  with  whom  I  am  communing,  I 
have,  after  great  reluctance,  submitted  my  case  to  a 
physician.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  never  struggled  all  I  can  with  myself,  without 
instantly  wishing  for  a  nearer  communion  with  you. 
For  as  you  were  my  first  friend,  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  word,  so  you  must  forever  be  among  my 
dearest. 

"  S.  T.  COLERIDGE.  "  * 

The  struggle  did  indeed  seem  almost  hopeless.  At 
this  time  he  constantly  took  a  pint  of  laudanum  a  day, 
and  sometimes  even  more — enough  to  kill  a  dozen  men 
unaccustomed  to  the  poison.  Having  saturated  his 
system  with  it,  he  simply  could  not  live  without  it. 

*  "  Life  of  Coleridge."— BRANDL. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

WORDSWORTH    AND    THE    LAKE    COUNTRY. 

And  when — O  friend,  my  comforter  and  guide, 
Strong  in  thyself  and  powerful  to  give  strength. 

COLERIDGE. 

On  man,  on  nature,  and  on  human  life, 

Musing  in  solitude,  I  oft  perceive 

Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise — 

And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts, 

And  dear  remembrances  whose  presence  soothes 

Or  elevates  the  mind,  intent  to  weigh 

The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 

To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come, 

Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 

Or  from  the  soul — an  impulse  in  itself — 

I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  verse. 

Of  truth,  of  Providence,  Beauty,  Love,  and  Hope, 

And  melancholy  fear  subdued  by  faith, 

Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress — 

I  sing.  WORDSWORTH. 

COLERIDGE  was  now  living  with  Wordsworth  at  Allan 
Bank.  This  pleasant  cottage  upon  the  sloping  hillside, 
overlooking  Grasmere,  was  their  home  for  several 
years,  until  Mr.  Wordsworth  bought  "  Rydal  Mount," 
a  couple  of  miles  below.  Here,  with  luxurious  foliage, 
and  beautiful  views  of  the  encircling  mountains  and 
the  lakes  nestled  at  their  feet,  the  two  friends  wrote  and 
read  and  discussed  their  favorite  theories. 

Coleridge  improved  in  health  and  spirits  during  this 
summer.  The  tall  poet,  with  his  shepherd's  plaid  to 


258       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

protect  him  from  the  evening  damps  of  the  chilly  Lake 
country,  and  his  owlish  green  spectacles,  might  be  seen 
at  all  times  and  seasons,  with  his  shambling  companion, 
whose  blowsy  hair,  now  fast  turning  gray,  responded  to 
every  passing  breeze.  They  paced  back  and  forth 
along  the  bracken  and  sedge-grass  of  the  lake-sides, 
and  clambered  through  the  heather,  over  all  the  fells 
and  peaks  of  the  mountains,  always  arguing,  talking, 
reciting,  like  great  buzzing  bees.  The  farmers  and 
yeomen  of  all  the  country  round  became  accustomed 
to  the  daily  sight  of  the  two  friends,  and  shook  their 
heads  over  the  busy  idleness  that  seemed  mysterious 
to  them.  "  Ees  do  climb  oop  and  on  loike  the  verra  de'il 
war  after  'em  ;  and  back  ees  coom  again,  belike,  wi' 
moss  or  stanes  to  hand.  Nawbut  a  speerit  o'  onrest 
do  seem  to  guide  ees,"  said  these  worthies  over  their 
pipes  in  the  village  ale-house  when  their  day's  plough 
ing  or  haymaking  was  over.  Little  did  they  know  of 
Wordsworth's  interest  in  their  homely  lives  and  toil. 
That  he  should  find  poetry  in  their  daily  prose,  or  make 
them  immortal  through  his  art,  was  an  honor  unsus 
pected. 

The  humble  church  on  Kirkstane  Pass,  and  its  equally 
unpretending  vicar,  who — 

"  Turned  to  this  secluded  chapelry 
That  had  been  offered  to  his  doubtful  choice 
By  our  unthought-of  patron,  * 

are  better  known  than  many  a  bishop  of  large  diocese 
and  stately  cathedral. 

"  Bleak  and  bare,  they   found   the  cottage,  their   allotted   home, 
And  far  removed, 

*  "  The  Excursion." — WORDSWORTH. 


WORDSWORTH  AND   THE  LAKE  COUNTRY.     259 

The  chapel  stood,  divided  from  that  house 
By  an  unpeopled  tract  of  mountains,  waste  .... 
Yet  cause  was  none,  whate'er  regret  might  hang 
On  his  own  mind,  to  quarrel  with  the  choice, 
Or  the  necessity  that  fixed  him  here."  * 

The  shepherd  Michael,")"  on  "  the  forest  side  in  Gras- 
mere  Vale,"  "near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green  Head 
Ghyll,"  never  knew  that  he  was  living  a  poem  for  the 
wandering  poet  to  write.  He  never  suspected  his 
steady,  patient  toil  to  be  either  praiseworthy  or  pathetic, 
and  when  he  impoverished  himself  of  his  life-long 
earnings,  for  the  only  son,  who  turned  rascal  and  broke 
his  parents'  hearts,  he  had  but  done  his  best,  and 
received  fate's  cruel  reward. 

But  the  poet  saw  the  poetry  beneath  life's  bitterest 
prose,  and  the  world  will  never  forget  that  cottage — 

"  High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail  Raise    ... 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular, 
And  so  far  seen,  the  house  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  Vale, 
Both  old  and  young,  was  named  the  Evening  Star." 

Here,  at  Allan  Bank,  Wordsworth  planned  and 
wrote  "  The  Excursion  "  and  many  of  his  finest  poems. 
Mrs.  Wordsworth  and  Dorothy  were  always  his  ready 
helpers,  writing  out  the  lines  he  hummed  to  them  after 
a  long  ramble,  or  when  lying  in  the  sunshine  on 
a  mossy  bank.  And  Coleridge  was  also  his  ardent 
worshiper.  The  sick,  discouraged  poet  felt  his  ener 
gies  revive  in  this  sweet,  wholesome  atmosphere  of 
love  and  labor,  but  not  for  poetry ;  that  seemed  left  be- 

*  "  The  Excursion." — WORDSWORTH. 

t  "Michael." — Pastoral  Poem  by  Wordsworth. 


260       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

hind  with  his  youthful  hope  and  aspirations.  But  he 
wrote  political,  metaphysical,  and  philosophical  essays 
far  into  the  night.  And  feeling  the  possibilities  still 
awaiting  him,  he  urged  Wordsworth  to  help  him  start 
a  new  periodical,  which  he  called  "  The  Friend."  As 
usual  with  his  plans,  Coleridge  had  great  schemes  of 
work  and  usefulness  laid  out,  to  be  accomplished  by 
"  The  Friend."  Wordsworth  became  as  enthusiastic, 
and  placed  all  the  money  he  could  spare  at  Coleridge's 
disposal.  Thomas  Poole  assisted  him  with  subscrip 
tions  and  articles,  as  did  many  old  friends,  glad  to 
know  that  he  had  again  shaken  off  his  lethargy.  His 
letter  to  Thomas  Poole  would  have  moved  a  less  gen 
erous  and  loving  man  than  Poole  :  "  Do  what  you 
can  for  me,  old  friend,  by  yourself  and  your  influence, 
or  the  influence  of  your  friends  ;  for  this  is  to  make  or 
mar  me.  .  .  .  You  must  write  me  a  number  for  *  The 
Friend '  upon  that  infamous  lace-beslavered  set  of  lazza- 
roni,  these  rascally  male  servants  in  and  out  of  livery, 
in  these  stinking  Gold  and  Silver  Fish-ponds,  the 
Squares  and  Places  and  Grandee  Streets  of  London. 
Likewise  an  essay  on  the  means  by  which  a  man  may 
make  his  wealth  conducive  to,  productive  and  aug 
mentative  of,  his  happiness.  You  may  call  it '  Ariadne's 
Clue  Improved,'  or  '  Jason  (Theseus)  with  a  Golden 
Fleece.' 

"  Joking  apart,  some  evening,  throw  yourself  into  a 
day-dream.  Suppose  yourself,  with  your  present  notions 
unchanged,  at  the  age  of  21,  with  ,£20,000  a  year. 
Live  through  fifteen  years — (2 1  to  36).  Your  biography 
of  this  should  be  written.  Then  from  36  to  55  the 
second,  and  from  58  to  70  or  80,  on,  as  you  like. 
People  it  with  friends — only  be  married  (and  take 


WORDSWORTH  AND   THE  LAKE  COUNTRY.     261 

precious  care  to  wkom\  and  have  sons   and  daugh 
ters."  * 

Poole  understood  Coleridge's  sarcasm,  and  while 
not  approving  of  the  fling  at  his  own  marital  relations, 
he  pitied  the  unfortunate  friend  who  found  even  his 
marriage  a  failure.  He  helped  him  with  subscrip 
tions  and  articles  for  "The  Friend,"  and  with  Words 
worth's  and  Dorothy's  ready  assistance,  it  prospered  for 
awhile.  Both  Poole  and  Southey  begged  the  impetuous 
fellow  to  pay  more  regard  to  public  feeling. 

Southey  said  :  "  Do  not  give  offense  by  too  plain 
speaking,  and  by  sneering  at  the  ways  of  the  world. 
Those  very  people  you  hold  in  such  contempt  are  the 
ones  who  can  make  or  mar  your  magazine." 

For  once  Coleridge  listened  to  advice.  He  tried  to 
be  cautious  and  tolerant ;  but  the  effort  was  evident  in 
the  work.  He  wrote  faithfully  night  after  night ;  but  the 
articles  were  too  serious,  too  metaphysical,  for  a  weekly 
magazine.  The  tone  was  not  light  enough  for  the 
popular  taste.  His  plan  was  too  grand,  and  he  ram 
bled  over  too  wide  a  field.  Subscriptions  failed,  and 
week  after  week  the  numbers  accumulated,  as  the 
demand  decreased. 

Wordsworth  added  money  to  the  increasing  expenses, 
but  neither  he  nor  Coleridge  knew  anything  about  the 
practical  poet  publishing  a  magazine.  Coleridge  saw 
a  hopeless  muddle  of  debts,  expenses,  and  necessities 
increasing  continually.  In  despair  he  wrote  to  Lamb  :f 
"  Send  more  of  your  sparkling  nonsense  :  the  paper  is 
sinking  like  lead,  and  carrying  me  with  it.  Stamps, 
duties,  paper,  expenses,  are  swamping  it.  I  have  made 
a  faithful  effort,  and  have  again  found  my  Nemesis. 
*  "  Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends.'' 
t  "  Life  of  Coleridge."  BRANDL. 


262       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Poole,  Wordsworth,  Cottle,  all  write  for  it ;  do  what  you 
can  for  me." 

The  Lambs  had  read  the  magazine  with  delight,  and 
were  surprised  and  pained  to  hear  of  Coleridge's  dis 
couragement.  Charles  wrote  :  "  I  think  the  account 
of  Luther  at  the  Wartburg  is  as  fine  as  anything  I  ever 
read.  God  forbid  that  a  man  who  has  such  things  to 
say  should  be  silenced  for  want  of  ^100.  This  Custom 
and  Duty  age  would  have  made  the  Preacher  on  the 
Mount  take  out  a  license  ;  and  St.  Paul's  epistles  would 
not  have  been  missible  without  a  stamp.  But  alas  ! 
where  is  Sir  G.  Beaumont  ? 

"  What  is  become  of  the  rich  auditors  in  Albemarle 
Street  ?  Your  letter  has  saddened  me."  * 

And  so  it  was :  no  support  from  the  crowds  who  had 
thronged  to  hear  him  lecture,  and  who  had  been  ready 
to  lionize  the  popular  favorite.  'Tis  the  old  story  of  the 
multitude  the  world  over.  One  day  they  cry,  "  Hos- 
annah  !  hosannah  !  "  and  the  next,  "  Away  with  him  !  " 

Far  into  the  night,  Coleridge's  light  sent  its  rays  out 
upon  the  hill  slope  above  Grasmere  Lake.  It  might  be 
another  beacon,  like  old  Martin's  upon  Nab  Scar,  for 
struggling  wanderers. 

But  no  homeless  tramp  could  feel  more  forsaken 
than  did  the  writer  in  the  sheltering  home  of  his  dearly 
loved  friends.  Failure  was  stamped  upon  his  work, 
and  his  friends  must  lose  their  money  and  confidence 
through  him  !  He  was  struggling  against  his  fate,  and 
against  his  tempter  too,  and  day  by  day  his  strength 
for  resistance  grew  less.  He  sent  out  twenty-seven 
numbers  of  "  The  Friend."  They  contained  fine  essays 
upon  the  times,  and  upon  great  epochs  of  the  world's 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINC.KK. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  COUNTRY.     263 

history,  but — the  world  did  not  want  them,  and  when 
there  was  nothing  left  but  debts  they  stopped. 

From  Greta  Hall,  Sarah  Coleridge  was  eagerly  watch 
ing  the  progress  of  "  The  Friend,"  seeing  in  it  the  hope 
for  Coleridge  and  promise  of  her  future,  and  the  hope 
that  a  life  of  activity  might  recall  the  old  desire  for  wife 
and  home.  She  and  Southey  knew  nothing  of  the  dis 
couragements  of  the  undertaking  ;  and  Southey  fed  her 
hopes  by  his  praises  of  the  work.  She  felt  a  wild  long 
ing  for  her  husband,  until  it  became  unbearable,  and 
she  took  little  Sara  and  went  to  visit  the  Wordsworths. 

How  her  heart  throbbed  as  she  passed  the  frown 
ing  old  Helvellyn,  and  beyond  Thirlmere  Lake  saw 
Grasmere  lying  along  the  silver  thread  of  the  Rothay. 
The  stage  seemed  to  crawl,  the  horses  to  creep,  as  they 
neared  the  Rothay  House.  There,  at  Allan  Bank,  was 
her  husband  with  his  old  friend,  Wordsworth.  Timidly 
she  approached,  sending  little  Sara  before  to  announce 
their  visit.  Coleridge  saw  the  little  fairy  and  clasped 
her  to  his  breast,  giving  Sarah  an  awkward  greeting, 
from  the  unexpected  pleasure  of  the  meeting. 

Wordsworth  went  to  the  house  to  announce  them, 
and  for  a  short  time  the  husband  and  wife  were  left 
together.  Sarah  noticed  the  gray  hair  and  pallid  face, 
and  taking  his  hand  said  :  "  You  are  not  well,  dear  ;  I 
hoped  to  see  you  looking  better.  We  read  your  papers 
with  such  pleasure,  that  I  fancied  you  must  be  better 
and  happier  than  when  we  were  last  together." 

Coleridge  looked  nervously  away,  and  clasping  little 
Sara  closer,  said  :  "  I  am  better  at  times  ;  but  the  old 
pains  are  getting  the  mastery  again.  And  you,  Sarah, 
are  you  not  contented  with  your  home  ?  Are  you  not 
more  happy  among  your  friends,  than  in  the  old, 


264       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

anxious  days,  when  my  vagaries  were  always  bothering 
you  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  Coleridge,  come  back  to  your  home,  to 
your  children  ;  they  are  growing  away  from  you.  I, 
your  wife,  need  you  sorely." 

He  looked  restlessly  at  the  house,  hoping  for  a  break 
in  their  trying  meeting. 

And  Sarah,  seeing  his  troubled,  unresponsive  face, 
felt  her  heart  sink,  and  knew  only  too  well  that  he  was 
still  a  wanderer.  She  made  a  terrible  effort  to  master 
her  disappointment,  and  as  Mrs.  Wordsworth  and  little 
Dora  came  hurrying  to  greet  them,  she  gained  com 
posure. 

It  was  awkward  to  be  a  mere  visitor  to  her  husband's 
home  ;  and  although  Mary  Wordsworth  was  tender  and 
sisterly,  and  Dorothy's  cheeriness  made  the  visit  pass 
pleasantly,  Sarah  remained  only  a  few  days,  but  was 
prevailed  upon  to  leave  the  little  girl  with  her  father. 

The  blue-eyed  little  woman  in  her  quaint  cap,  where 
the  little  golden  rings  would  curl  over  the  border,  and 
the  brown-eyed  witch  of  Allan  Bank  were  great  friends. 
They  were  a  pretty  pair,  and  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth 
loved  to  watch  their  innocent  games  and  prattle. 
Dora's  big  brothers  somewhat  alarmed  the  "  little  fairy," 
as  they  called  Sara.  But  her  quick  wit  and  responsive 
sweetness  soon  won  the  rough  fellows  as  champions. 
They  were  a  merry,  happy  party  ;  and  Coleridge's  pride 
and  delight  in  his  child  were  touching.  She  must  sleep 
with  him,  and  he  was  only  happy  when  she  was  trotting 
over  the  hills  by  his  side.  He  had  an  endless  store  of 
fairy  tales  and  "  wonder-dreams  "  to  tell  her,  and  she 
followed  him  like  his  shadow — a  midday  shadow  was 
this  tiny  maiden. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  THE  LAKE  COUNTRY.     265 

"  Little  daughter,"  said  Coleridge,  one  day,  taking 
her  into  his  arms  and  holding  her  close,  "  if  you  could 
choose,  would  you  live  all  the  time  with  mother  or  with 
father  ? " 

"  I  must  live  with  my  mamma  ;  but  I  will  stay  with 
you,"  she  answered  quickly.  "  But  I  would  like  to 
have  both  of  you  at  once,  like  Edith  and  Dora.  Why 
will  you  not  come  home  with  me  to  my  mamma  ? "  she 
asked,  looking  wistfully  into  his  loving  eyes. 

It  was  a  touching  appeal,  and  Coleridge  sighed 
heavily  as  he  left  the  little  girl  with  her  companions, 
and  climbed  wearily  up  Green  Head  Ghyll  to  the 
mountain  top. 

When,  at  last,  Sarah  came  for  her  little  one,  and 
Coleridge  saw  her  cling  to  her  mother,  glad  to  leave 
friends,  father,  and  everything,  to  return  with  her,  he 
realized  that  he  must  return  to  his  children,  or  lose 
their  love. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BROKEN    TIES. 

Hence  viper  thoughts  that  coil  around  my  mind, 
Reality's  dark  dream  ! 

I  turn  from  you  and  listen  to  the  wind 

Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.     What  a  scream 
Of  agony,  by  torture  lengthened  out ! 

COLERIDGE. 

DURING  the  fall  Wordsworth  persuaded  Coleridge 
to  accompany  him  to  Keswick.  He  thought  there 
would  be  more  hope  of  a  reunion  between  husband 
and  wife  if  Coleridge  found  himself  a  welcome  guest 
at  Greta  Hall.  Sarah  had  pleaded  earnestly  with 
Wordsworth  to  use  his  influence  to  this  end. 

On  a  crisp,  sunny  Monday  of  September,  the  tall 
poet  with  green  goggles,  shrouded  in  the  folds  of  his 
gray  plaid,  and  the  shorter  man  in  rusty  black,  with 
heavy  step  and  luminous  eyes,  set  out  to  scale  Dun- 
mail  Raise  and  reach  Keswick  before  dinner  hour. 

The  thirteen  miles  of  mountain  and  valley  were  but 
a  pleasant  morning  walk  to  the  friends  who  spent  their 
lives  in  studying  Nature  and  prying  into  her  secrets. 
Even  in  the  warm  sunshine  Helvellyn  rose  cold  and 
grim,  its  great  rugged  boulders  hanging  threateningly 
over  Thirlmere  Lake.  At  its  base,  moss  and  purple 
heather  hid  its  scars;  and  ferns  and  bracken,  and  innu 
merable  blue-bells  and  broom,  fringed  the  lake.  But 
Thirlmere  cannot  smile  in  the  sunshine  as  do  the  other 
lakes :  it  lies  sullen  and  black  under  the  frowning 
shadow  of  Helvellyn,  its  watchful  giant. 


BROKEN  TIES.  267 

"  I  like  this  mountain  least  of  all  the  great  brother 
hood,"  said  Coleridge,  shuddering  in  the  breezes  from 
its  stony  crown.  "  It  is  so  dark  and  gloomy  ;  it  seems 
always  turned  away  from  the  sun.  And  it  is  so  full  of 
mysteries,  and  great  purple  chasms." 

"  How  differently  the  same  point  appears  to  different 
minds  or  temperaments,"  said  Wordsworth.  "To  me, 
Helvellyn  is  the  finest  of  our  hills.  It  bears  the  scars 
of  centuries,  and  seems  to  have  the  ruggedness  of  age 
and  strength,  whilst  the  others  are  yet  in  their  youthful 
freshness  and  bloom.  They  have  their  trees  and 
mosses  to  shield  them  from  the  storms  ;  but,  save  for 
the  grass  that  veils  all  nature,  Helvellyn  stands  up, 
brave  and  uncovered,  to  the  pitiless  elements  here." 

Southey  and  his  household  greeted  the  poets  warmly, 
showing  by  every  attention  their  pleasure  at  the  visit. 
Hartley  and  Derwent  Coleridge  had  much  to  tell  their 
father  of  their  school-life  and  studies  j  and  little  Sara 
clung  to  him  as  at  Allan  Bank.  Yet,  on  Wednesday, 
when  Wordsworth  proposed  to  leave,  Coleridge  re 
turned  with  him.  He  felt  more  at  home  beneath  his 
friend's  roof  than  with  his  own  family. 

He  remained  during  the  winter  and  spring,  suffering 
terribly  with  rheumatism,  neuralgia,  and  gout.  He  was 
seldom  free  from  pain,  and  again  his  remedy  held  him 
in  bondage.  De  Quincy  had  taken  the  little  cottage 
by  the  roadside,  all  screened  in  ivy ;  and  he  was  a 
daily  visitor.  The  Clarksons  and  Professor  Wilson, 
who  lived  near,  were  also  constant  visitors  and  most 
sympathizing  friends.  The  Scotch  giant,  Wilson,  with 
his  splendid  figure  and  tawny  hair,  was  a  striking  con 
trast  to  the  shuffling,  stooping  man  he  was  proud  to 
call  his  friend.  Being  a  young  poet,  he  appreciated 


268      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

and  worshiped  the  genius  of  Wordsworth  and  Cole 
ridge,  and  he  was  indefatigable  in  his  efforts  to  reclaim 
Coleridge  from  his  fatal  habit.  Perhaps  Dorothy 
Wordsworth's  laughing  brown  eyes  had  some  power  to 
attract  the  handsome  young  Hercules.  William  Words 
worth  always  said  she  had  bewitched  him.  But  what 
ever  the  cause,  he  was  a  most  constant  visitor,  and 
added  much  to  the  charm  of  the  group  of  poets  that 
congregated  at  Allan  Bank. 

After  the  failure  of  "The  Friend,"  Coleridge  felt  no 
incentive  to  work,  and  as  idleness  is  always  the  high 
way  to  ruin,  he  grew  worse  in  health  and  became  more 
unsettled  and  restless.  It  was  torture  to  him  to  have 
Wordsworth  and  his  family  see  his  helpless  weakness. 
He  therefore  decided  to  return  to  his  home,  if  he  might 
still  so  consider  his  deserted  fireside  and  family. 

Sarah  was  only  too  happy  to  welcome  him,  and  faith 
fully  nursed  him  back  to  health  and  strength.  The 
summer  was  beneficial  to  his  rheumatism,  and  her  ten 
der  care  soothed  his  spirit.  The  children  and  Southey 
were  a  wholesome  stimulus  to  his  ambition,  and  he  was 
again  enabled  to  throw  off  his  chains,  and  become 
almost  free  from  opium  torments.  He  taught  his  boys 
Latin  and  mathematics,  and  found  such  pleasure  in 
their  development  that  Sarah  hoped  against  hope  that 
home  would  satisfy  him. 

But  he  grew  impatient  of  her  anxious  watchfulness. 
He  felt  the  ignominy  of  his  shattered  powers  and 
broken  hopes  ;  and  their  contrast  with  Southey's  hard, 
patient  labor  and  growing  success  galled  him  into 
restlessness.  He  must  be  doing  something,  and  only 
London  could  offer  him  a  field  of  action. 

Sarah's  anxious  eyes  had  already  divined  his  pur- 


BROKEN-  TIES.  26q 

pose.  She  saw  his  increasing  irritability,  and  all  her 
womanhood  rose  within  her  against  his  injustice  and 
weakness.  If  he  left  her  again,  it  should  be  forever. 
She  would  steel  her  heart  against  the  husband  who 
could  so  easily  throw  off  all  claims  of  wife  and  children. 
And  she  succeeded  in  this  her  last  struggle.  When 
Coleridge  departed  for  London  this  time,  both  felt  it 
was  a  final  severing  of  the  sacred  tie. 

Sarah's  indignation  at  being  so  unjustly  treated, 
cured  her  of  the  pangs  of  such  a  separation.  Cole 
ridge's  repugnance  to  his  home-life  was  almost  incom 
prehensible  to  himself.  He  could  scarcely  find  an 
excuse,  even  to  himself,  save  that  he  was  unfit  for 
the  friction  and  jarring  of  domestic  life.  Yet  he  was 
an  honorable,  Christian  man,  with  a  most  sensitive 
conscience.  But  his  fiend  had  perverted  his  vision  and 
weakened  his  resistance.  Sarah's  quick  temper  and 
ready  reproaches  always  galled  him.  He  considered 
himself  unable  to  be  happy  in  his  home,  and  unfit  to 
make  his  wife  happy.  They  misunderstood  one  another 
continually  ;  and  as  he  felt  rather  a  cipher  in  his  home, 
and  fancied  reproach  before  he  even  saw  it,  he  de 
parted,  this  time,  forever. 

He  went  to  London  with  his  friend  Basil  Montagu, 
and  accepted  an  invitation  to  stay  at  his  house.  The 
Montagus  lived  among  a  more  fashionable  set  than  our 
poet  relished.  The  stately  dinners  and  brilliant  as 
semblages  at  their  house  soon  grew  irksome  to  Cole 
ridge.  He  welcomed  his  old  friends,  Lamb  and  Hazlitt 
and  Procter  and  Samuel  Rogers,  when  they  came  to 
Mrs.  Montagu's  salon  evenings,  but  he  grew  morose 
when  Jeffrey  or  Lord  John  Russell,  or  any  of  the 
Holland  House  coterie  appeared.  He  answered  their 


2jo      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

courtesies  so  brusquely  that  his  hostess  resented  his 
rudeness.  Mrs.  Montagu  was  a  charming  hostess, 
brilliant,  witty,  genial,  with  her  own  especial  charm,  as 
she  flitted  from  guest  to  guest,  always  a  pretty  picture 
of  a  medieval  dame,  in  silver-gray  flowing  robe,  with 
ruff  and  laces.  She  could  forgive  Coleridge's  rusty 
black  small-clothes,  so  unfashionable  in  cut  and  care 
less  in  adjustment ;  but  she  could  not  overlook  the  dusty 
shoes  and  unkempt  head,  and  the  sullen  air  he  assumed 
in  the  presence  of  her  especial  friends. 

At  a  dinner,  he  sat  beside  young  Monckton  Milnes, 
and  commented  rather  savagely  upon  his  politics  and 
his  popularity  among  the  aristocrats. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Coleridge,  "you  cannot  expect  to 
understand  the  Reform  Question  if  you  spend  your 
days  driving  around  with  snobs,  and  your  nights  dining 
and  wining  in  this  fashion.  No  man  can  lead  an  arti 
ficial  life,  and  keep  a  clear  brain  for  the  important 
questions  of  the  day." 

Monckton  Milnes  flushed  and  looked  surprised  at 
the  uncalled-for  attack,  but  before  he  could  reply, 
Sydney  Smith  said  in  his  quick  way : 

"  No,  Mr.  Coleridge,  reform  should  always  begin  at 
home,  and  only  those  can  appreciate  that  who  have 
succeeded  in  their  own  lives.  It  is  a  pretty  question, 
but  a  better  answer  when  applied  practically." 

Coleridge  felt  the  rebuke,  and  turning  his  great 
eyes  upon  Sydney  Smith,  said  :  "  You  remind  me  then 
of  the  old  saying  :  *  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  among 
you  cast  the  first  stone  ? '  ' 

"  Nay,  I  never  preach  out  of  the  pulpit,"  laughed 
Sydney  Smith  ;  "  'tis  work  enough  to  fit  text  and 
sermon  when  I'm  paid  to  do  it  ;  I  cannot  spare  it, 


BROKEN  TIES.  271 

gratis,"  and  the  ever-ready  wit  turned  the  edge  of  the 
sarcasm  and  brought  back  the  smiles  and  good-humor 
that  always  followed  that  clerical  wag. 

But  Coleridge's  antagonism  to  the  set  accustomed  to 
flattery,  and  his  criticisms  upon  fashionable  life,  soon 
made  a  breach  between  him  and  the  Montagus,  and  he 
removed  to  the  more  humble  home  of  his  friends  the 
Morgans,  at  Hammersmith,  where  he  remained  a  year, 
until  the  increasing  debts  and  poverty  of  the  Morgans 
compelled  him  to  seek  new  lodgings.  He  feared  he  was 
some  tax  upon  their  straitened  means,  although  he 
always  paid  his  board,  when  he  could  squeeze  anything 
out  of  "  The  Courier  "  for  his  writings. 

He  finally  made  an  arrangement  with  Street,  the 
proprietor  of  "The  Courier,"  by  which  he  was  to  write 
regularly  for  that  paper,  and  also  to  condense  the 
police  and  political  reports,  for  which  he  received  four 
or  five  pounds  a  week.  He  worked  faithfully  and 
wrote  constantly  and  regularly ;  his  friend,  Mrs.  Mor 
gan,  watching  him  and  guarding  him  from  opium  as  at 
Calne.  He  rose  at  six  and  took  the  early  coach  to 
the  Strand  each  day  ;  but  he  walked  the  whole  distance 
back  at  night  to  save  the  fare. 

As  Coleridge  was  accustomed  to  walking  whilst  in 
the  Lake  Country,  the  daily  exercise  was  beneficial 
rather  than  otherwise.  His  engagement  upon  "  The 
Courier  "  became  most  irksome  and  trying.  His  articles 
were  used  or  thrown  aside  at  the  mere  whim  of  Street, 
who  never  appreciated  their  charm,  and  who  had  but 
the  low  standard  of  popular  favor.  In  his  long  walks 
to  Hammersmith,  Coleridge  had  ample  time  to  churn 
up  his  wrongs,  and  the  result  was  a  serious  quarrel 
between  him  and  Street.  He  told  Street  that  "  The 


272       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Courier  "  was  degenerating  into  a  mere  gossip  grind, 
and  he  insinuated  that  that  gentleman  knew  about  as 
much  of  literature  and  the  standard  of  taste  as  an 
Italian  organ-grinder* 

So,  naturally,  his  connection  with  the  paper  ceased, 
and  the  poor  poet,  who  was  so  willing  to  be  a  mere 
journalistic  drudge  for  his  daily  bread,  had  even  that 
certainty  fade  into  shadow. 

The  Morgans  could  no  longer  live  amid  their  debts 
at  Hammersmith,  and  they  returned  to  Calne,  where 
Mr.  Morgan  gathered  a  few  pupils,  and  so  eked  out 
a  scant  living.  Coleridge  removed  to  a  garret  in  South 
ampton  Building,  near  Charles  Lamb. 

Once  more  a  streak  of  luck  came  at  an  opportune 
time.  He  was  engaged  to  deliver  a  course  of  seven 
teen  lectures  before  the  "  London  Philosophical 
Society."  He  gathered  all  his  forces  and  made  the 
most  vigorous  effort  of  his  life,  and  resolutely  walked 
off  his  wild  cravings  for  opium.  Fortunately  he  was 
less  tormented  than  of  late  by  neuralgia  and  gout,  and 
with  rigorous  care  and  constant  encouragement  from 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  who  were  always  his  good 
angels,  he  delivered  the  best  lectures  of  his  life. 

There  were  usually  a  couple  of  hundred  people  pres 
ent,  and  the  lectures  upon  Shakspeare  and  Milton  were 
admirable.  The  cynical  Rogers  found  more  to  praise 
than  to  criticise,  which  alone  was  great  encouragement 
to  the  drowning  man  who  was  clutching  his  last  straws. 
Byron  was  charmed,  and  was  ready  to  assist  in  any 
way  within  his  power.  Crabbe  Robinson  and  Landor 
and  Basil  Montagu  and  Leigh  Hunt,  and  many  more 
of  the  literary  men  of  London,  were  delighted  at  the 
reawakening  of  the  eloquence  of  this  born  orator. 


BROKEN  TIES.  273 

During  this  winter  of  1812  the  hall  was  crowded,  and 
the  lectures  were  most  brilliant  and  satisfactory,  if 
somewhat  discursive  ;  for  Coleridge  followed  no  rules, 
and  traveled  on,  in  his  own  brilliant  fashion,  rambling 
over  wide  fields  and  pouring  floods  of  unpremeditated 
eloquence  upon  all  the  ramifications  of  his  subject. 

None  but  a  genius  could  dare  confront  such  an 
audience  with  so  unprepared  a  lecture.  But  Coleridge's 
mind  was  a  reservoir  of  valuable  information  upon  all 
subjects,  and  he  had  but  to  let  the  torrent  loose,  to 
charm  all  listeners.  Though  a  risky  style,  it  was  none 
the  less  charming  for  its  digressions. 

He  greatly  needed  the  substantial  sum  he  received 
for  these  lectures,  and  was  glad  to  send  a  large  share 
of  it  to  his  family. 

Another  piece  of  good  fortune  came  to  him  through 
Lord  Byron,  who  was  at  the  height  of  his  popularity 
in  London.  His  old,  forgotten  play,  "  Osorio,"  which 
had  been  lying  unheeded  for  a  dozen  years  among  the 
waste  paper  of  Drury  Lane  Theater,  was  hunted  up  by 
Byron,  who  was  one  of  the  managers  of  the  theater. 
He  saw  possibilities  in  the  play,  and  was  eager  to  help 
his  brother-poet,  upon  whom  fate  had  so  long  frowned. 
He  induced  Coleridge  to  rewrite  and  remodel  the 
piece,  and  give  it  another  name.  It  was  brought  out 
under  the  title  of  "  Remorse,"  and  had  a  run  of  a  month 
or  so,  bringing  Coleridge  popularity  and  a  nice  sum  of 
money. 

18 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

RAVELED    STITCHES  AND  BROKEN    THREADS. 

O  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts, 

O  studious  poet,  eloquent  for  truth ! 

Philosopher !  contemning  wealth  and  death, 

Yet  docile,  childlike,  full  of  life  and  love. 

.  .  .  'Tis  true  that,  passionate  for  ancient  truths, 

And  honoring  with  religious  love  the  great 

Of  elder  times,  he  hated  to  excess, 

With  an  unquiet  and  intolerant  scorn, 

The  hollow  puppets  of  a  hollow  age, 

Ever  idolatrous,  and  changing  ever 

Its  worthless  idols. 

COLERIDGE. 

IT  seemed  as  if  brighter  days  were  dawning  for 
Coleridge.  Within  a  year  he  had  had  two  successes 
which  had  netted  him  several  hundred  pounds.  He 
felt  so  encouraged  that  he  wrote  another  play, 
"Zapolya,"  but  the  critics  tore  this  to  bits,  and,  having 
been  written  more  for  its  ideas  and  literary  points 
than  for  the  stage,  it  fell  dead.  Coleridge's  health  also 
failed  :  the  old  rheumatism  attacked  him,  and  again 
the  remedy  was  worse  than  the  disease. 

He  visited  Joseph  Cottle,  who  was  shocked  to  see 
the  ravages  disease  and  opium  had  made  upon  him. 
He  now  gave  himself  up  to  his  enemy  more  than  at 
any  other  time,  being  in  a  constant  state  of  exaltation 
or  stupor  from  the  poison,  and  the  victim  of  terrible 
suffering  from  neuralgia.  If  not  allowed  the  drug,  he 


RAVELED  STITCHES. 


275 


walked  the  floor  whole  nights.  Yet  Cottle  was  so 
determined  to  save  him,  that  he  employed  a  man  to 
follow  him  about  Bristol  and  prevent  him  from  buying 
the  poison.  But  with  the  cunning  of  a  madman  he 
would  elude  the  very  man  whom  he  besought  to  pre 
vent  him  from  buying  opium.  He  resorted  to  every 
device  to  get  it,  and  in  spite  of  himself,  and  despite  Mr. 
Cottle's  utmost  care,  he  obtained  it.  He  had  sunk  to 
a  state  of  mere  animal  existence,  with  a  burning  crav 
ing  for  the  drug  that  dragged  him  still  lower — leaving 
neither  will  nor  strength  for  the  conflict  of  soul  against 
body. 

He  fled  to  Calne,  where  the  Morgans  were  again 
living,  and  begged  Mrs.  Morgan  to  save  him  from  the 
devil  that  had  possession  of  his  faculties.  She,  better 
than  any  one  else,  could  exorcise  the  evil  spirit,  and, 
with  her  kind  woman's  heart  and  keen  woman's  wit, 
could  soothe  his  sufferings  of  body  and  mind. 

After  some  months  with  them,  where  he  was  paying 
two  pounds  a  week  for  his  board  and  lodging  (thus 
helping  along  their  straitened  finances),  he  gradually 
became  somewhat  better. 

He  wrote  whenever  his  tempter  left  him  with  mind 
enough  for  work.  Here,  in  the  quiet  of  the  little 
country  town,  he  wrote  many  philosophical  articles, 
and  those  broken  and  disconnected  memorials  of  his 
life  and  philosophies — the  "  Biographia  Literaria." 

In  these  rambling  memoirs  he  gave  his  finest  tribute 
to  his  friend  Wordsworth  ;  and  he  discussed,  in  his 
discursive  way,  his  own  wanderings  through  German 
metaphysics,  and  his  return  to  the  safe  shelter  of  the 
Church  of  England.  Whilst  bearing  traces  of  his  en 
feebled  physical  condition  in  its  style,  the  book  is  a 


276       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

fascinating  sample  of  his  deep  and  earnest  thought, 
and  deserved  a  better  fate  than  the  sneers  that  met  it 
upon  the  threshold  of  its  career.  The  critics  tore  it 
limb  from  limb  and  scattered  it  as  worthless  trash, 
not  reading  the  heart-story  beneath  its  lines,  and  not 
appreciating  its  summing  up  of  the  eager  gropings  of  a 
lifetime. 

True,  he  rambled,  and  went  off  upon  innumerable 
side  issues ;  but  he  pictured  his  hungry  grasping  for 
soul-food  as  a  warning  to  other  seekers  after  truth 
amid  the  husks  of  metaphysics.  He  pieced  together 
the  fragments  of  his  deeply  studied  theories,  and 
showed  the  fallacies  of  the  different  systems  of  phil 
osophy,  that  had  driven  him,  little  by  little,  back  to  the 
Church  of  England,  as  nearest  to  the  Bible  teaching. 
He  hoped  to  lead  other  doubting  souls  back  to  the 
saving  faith  in  Jesus  Christ,  the  only  belief  that 
satisfies  both  heart  and  intellect.  What  mischief  his 
early  wanderings  and  doubting  may  have  done,  he 
prayerfully  hoped  his  later  convictions  might  undo. 
It  was  his  atonement.  How  was  it  received  ?  The 
magazines  sneered  at  it  as  a  piece  of  hypocrisy.  They 
called  it  "  wandering,  maudlin  trash  of  the  past, 
dragged  into  view." 

Even  Southey,  co-editor  of  the  "  Quarterly  Review," 
gave  it  no  help  ;  he  took  no  notice  whatever  of  it,  and 
said  to  a  friend,  "  Coleridge  had  better  reform  his  habits 
before  he  preaches  to  the  public."  Thus  easy  is  it  to 
condemn  and  throw  mud  at  a  fallen  friend  ! 

Lamb  wrote  to  Coleridge,  praising  the  book  in 
highest  terms. 

"  Come  to  me,  old  friend,"  he  wrote.  "  I  want  a 
good  old-fashioned  talk  with  my  philosopher.  We 


RA  VELED  S  TITCHES.  2  7  7 

have  the  little  garret  snuggery  waiting  for  you.  Come 
up  to  London  and  see  what  we  can  do  to  stop  those 
hissing  serpent-mouths,  that  spit  their  venom  at  what 
is  far  beyond  their  comprehension." 

Coleridge  went  for  a  visit  to  his  comforters.  Charles 
and  Mary  could  always  soothe  his  troubles  ;  and  the 
quiet  fireside  and  pleasant  evenings  with  the  Lambs 
alone,  or  the  whist  evenings  with  their  friends,  seemed 
an  elysium  of  home  comfort. 

One  evening,  soon  after  he  had  gone  to  London, 
Coleridge  sauntered  slowly  up  Cheapside  to  meet  Lamb 
on  his  return  from  the  India  House.  The  throngs  of 
pedestrians  and  vehicles,  passing  along  the  crowded 
thoroughfare,  did  not  rouse  him  from  the  heavy  reverie 
in  which  he  walked  rather  blindly.  A  new  attack 
upon  his  writings  and  character  had  just  appeared  in 
"  Blackwood,"  and  he  was  stung  as  with  nettles  ;  too 
stupefied  with  his  pain  to  notice  the  enticing  book-stalls 
and  shop-windows  along  his  favorite  Paternoster  Row, 
until  he  descried  a  small,  black-clad  figure,  all  head  and 
luminous  brown  eyes,  tripping  briskly  along. 

"  Hello !  Ph-ph-philosopher,  what  problems  are  you 
s-s-solving  now  ? "  called  Lamb,  as  he  approached  and 
linked  his  arm  in  his  friend's. 

"  Ah,  Charley  !  they're  at  it  again,  flaying  me  alive  ! 
'  Blackwood '  has  just  come  in  with  a  vicious  stab  at 
the  '  Biographia.'  They  call  me  'hypocrite,'  '  dreamer,' 
and  say  I  have  no  right  to  foist  my  trash  upon  the 
public,"  he  spoke  with  tears  of  mortification  and  grief 
in  the  eyes  turned  so  piteously  upon  Lamb.  "  And 
William  Hazlitt,  your  friend  Hazlitt,  is  trying  his  scalpel 
upon  me,"  he  groaned.  "  I  did  my  best ;  I  am  but  a 
broken  man,  Charley,  ruined  in  mind  and  body ;  yet  I 


2;S        THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

gave  earnest,  patient  labor  to  that  book,  and  I  need  its 
success  for  my  daily  bread." 

"  Sh-sh-shameful !  c-c-crtiel !  "  stammered  Lamb, 
stamping  his  little  foot,  until  a  passing  baker's  boy 
stared  in  round-eyed  wonder,  and  held  his  steaming 
roast  closer  for  fear  of  some  sudden  collision.  "I'll 
write  to  Hazlitt  this  n-n-night,  confound  his  imp-imp- 
impertinence,"  added  Lamb. 

"  Ah,  Charley  !  you  and  I  cannot  stop  them.  Even 
Southey  refuses  the  help  he  might  give.  I  tell  you,  I  am 
discouraged.  Life  has  nothing  left  for  me.  It  has 
neither  hope  nor  the  right  to  work  for  my  bread.  I 
have  failed  at  every  point.  What  I  have  done  has 
found  small  sale  and  brought  no  money.  What  I  have 
meant  to  do  has  been  frozen  back  by  the  world's 
cruelty  and  pitiless  scorn  at  what  I  have  written.  The 
critics  have  murdered  me." 

"  So  they  have  abused  S-S-Southey  and  W-W-Words- 
worth,"  said  Lamb.  "  The  '  Edinburgh  Review  '  and 
'  B-Blackwood  '  have  s-s-s-sneered  for  years  ;  but  they 
have  gone  steadily  on  writing  and  paying  no  heed, 
until  the  t-t-tide  has  turned,  and  Southey  can  now  have 
his  t-t-turn  at  them.  Your  ebb  t-t-tide  must  be  nearly 
run  out,  old  f-f-fellow.  It  is  d-d-deuced  hard  ;  but  t-t- 
trim  your  sails,  and  come  in  at  the  f-f-flood." 

"  I  will  not,  I  cannot  write  to  be  torn  piecemeal,  and 
spit  out  of  those  Scotchmen's  mouths,  while  Tom 
Moore's  little  jigs,  and  Byron's  sulphur  fumes  are 
called  *  poetry.'  Poetry  !  such  mewling,  puking,  draw 
ing-room  dilettante  nonsense,  spun  by  the  yard,  and 
twanged  to  harps  and  viols  !  This,  poetry !  Look  at 
Lady  Blessington,  with  her  hundred  pounds  for  album 
sweeties.  And  Mrs.  Remans,  with  some  common- 


RAVELED  STITCHES.  279 

sense,  and  a  pretty  knack  at  rhyming,  is  supporting 
her  family  with  her  poems !  Campbell  and  Rogers, 
having  friends  and  money,  have  found  favor  with  the 
public  censors  who  build  up  or  destroy  a  man's  reputa 
tion,  according  to  their  prejudices." 

"  Do  not  feel  it  so  b-b-bitterly,  Esteecee.  Do  not  let 
them  b-b-bridle  your  mouth.  W-w-write  for  the  world 
and  for  Truth's  s-s-sake,  and  Truth  shall  some  day  own 
you." 

"  And  starve  in  the  mean  time  !  like  Chatterton  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  poets  !  I  tell  you,  I  have  dropped 
poetry  forever.  They  don't  know  it  when  they  see  it. 
I  am  writing  sermons  for  stupid  and  lazy  divines  at 
sixpence  a  page.  I  am  doing  the  '  Courier's  '  dirty  work 
at  five  shillings  a  column.  I  am  a  poor  devil  of  a 
literary  hack,  since  I  must  find  my  daily  subsistence 
somewhere.  But  let  a  man  curse  the  day  that  made 
him  a  poet  and  a  seeker  after  truth.  There  is  no  place 
for  poetry,  and  I  am  done  with  it !  " 

Lamb  winced  visibly  when  he  read  the  article,  call 
ing  Coleridge  a  "  fantastic  braggadocio,  full  of  self- 
admiration,  with  little  feeling  and  no  judgment."  The 
"  Biographia  Literaria  "  was  pronounced  "  execrable 
trash,  treating  the  most  ordinary  commonplaces  like 
mysteries."* 

He  and  Mary  comforted  Coleridge  for  his  abomina 
ble  treatment  by  their  warm  sympathy.  They  watched 
him  tenderly  and  suggested  many  pleasant  diversions. 
The  political  events  and  war  news  were  great  sources 
of  interest  to  the  "  Round  Table  "  as  well  as  to  all 
England.  Bonaparte's  hesitations  and  defeats,  and  the 
gradual  pursuit  by  the  Allies,  until,  after  their  great 
*  "  Life  of  Coleridge." — BRANDL. 


280      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

victory  at  Leipsic,  they  followed  him  to  Paris,  stirred 
the  world.  So  under  the  protection  of  England,  and  the 
other  allied  powers,  Louis  XVIII.  returned  from  his 
residence  in  England,  and  became  King  of  the  French, 
promising  to  administer  the  laws  according  to  the  new 
constitution. 

He  signed,  with  Great  Britain,  Austria,  Russia  and 
Prussia,  a  treaty  of  peace,  restoring  French  boundaries 
to  their  old  limits.  Thus  was  the  troublous  chasm  of 
twenty-two  years,  bridged  over.  And  the  torrents  of 
blood  that  had  flooded  those  years  had  at  last  swept 
away  the  French  republic  and  the  usurper's  throne,  and 
carried  the  Bourbons  back.  London  was  in  a  continual 
state  of  enthusiasm,  parades,  and  illuminations.  The 
coffee-houses  and  clubs  teemed  with  life  and  excitement. 
Whigs  and  Tories  united  in  the  common  rejoicing. 
There  were  a  few  more  anxious  days  after  Napoleon's 
return  from  Elba  and  his  advance  upon  the  Allies  on 
the  Belgian  frontier  during  the  Hundred  Days. 

Waterloo  and  the  surrender  of  Bonaparte  was  a 
magnificent  climax,  and  the  enthusiasm  and  pride  of 
the  English  knew  no  bounds.  "  Waterloo  and  Welling 
ton,"  "  Victory  and  Peace  "  were  upon  all  arches, 
banners,  and  lanterns,  and  the  newly-introduced  gas 
added  greatly  to  the  splendor  of  the  illumination. 
London  was  ablaze  with  light  and  as  full  of  mad  revelry 
and  street  processions  as  Rome  during  the  Carnival. 
Coleridge  and  Lamb  of  course  shared  the  general 
excitement.  At  one  of  the  Wednesday  evenings, 
Talfourd  and  Procter  came  hastening  in  with  a  hurried  : 
"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  "  "  Is  it  another  W-W- 
Waterloo  ;  is  the  k-k-king  dead  ?  "  asked  Lamb. 

"  Better  than  that :  you'll  never  guess.     Southey  is 


RAVELED  STITCHES.  281 

made  poet  laureate,"  said  Procter,  glancing  quickly  at 
Coleridge,  who  flushed  a  deep  red,  and  then  paled  again, 

"  Good  for  him  !  "  said  Lamb,  "  you,  s-s-see,  Cole 
ridge,  you  p-p-poets  are  g-g-gaining  the  foot  of  the 
throne  ;  you  will  f-f-find  your  pedestal  one  of  these 
d-d-days." 

"  Not  by  cringing  to  royalty  or  bending  my  knee 
to  ask  favors  of  aristocrats,"  said  Coleridge  hotly. 
"  Southey  has  been  clipping  his  wings  these  many  days 
to  avoid  flying  in  the  face  of  royal  providence.  Well ! 
he  has  his  reward  ,•  but  I  do  not  envy  him  his  honors." 

"  Nay,  Coleridge,  Southey  never  sought  the  position," 
said  Rickman,  who  had  entered  during  the  discussion. 
"  His  work  has  well  deserved  this  public  expression  of 
approval.  He  works  like  a  giant,  and  this  is  the  only 
literary  distinction  within  the  power  of  the  Crown." 

"  We  shall  see  Southey's  muse  chained  to  the 
christening  car  and  the  triumphal  chariot,"  sneered 
Coleridge. 

"  Well,  even  that  is  better  than  to  be  d-d-drowned 
in  the  depths  of  the  s-s-sea,"  stammered  the  peace- 
loving  Lamb.  "  I'd  write  odes  to  his  m-m-majesty's 
pint-pots  myself,  if  I  might  sign  myself  *  P-P-Poet  to 
the  Crown,'"  laughed  Lamb. 

"  No,  '  Elia,'  that  thou  wouldst  not,"  said  Rickman. 
"  Our  quaint  philosopher  would  not  wear  cap  and  bells 
for  any  prince." 

"  Let  not  that  prince,  then,  tempt  me  with  too 
shining  gold,  else  might  I  f-fain  forswear  my  p-prin- 
ciples." 

"  Gad  !  does  he  too  hanker  after  Egypt's  flesh-pots  ?  " 
asked  Hazlitt. 

"  Small  aid  he'd   ever  get  from  you,  knight  of  the 


282       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

scalpel,"  said  Coleridge,  who  was  still  stinging  from 
that  critic's  thrusts. 

"  Perhaps  no  aid  to  climb  to  royal  favors,"  said 
Hazlitt ;  "  but  if  ever  *  Elia '  needs  my  help,  he  knows 
my  opinion  of  him." 

"  The  world  knows  your  opinions  of  most  people," 
said  Coleridge.  "  You  certainly  do  not  hide  your  light 
under  a  bushel ;  the  smoke  and  stench  announce  its 
presence,  and  the  flames  soon  burn  through,  and  leave 
charred  reputations  in  your  wake." 

Hazlitt's  eagle  face  looked  dangerous  at  this  retort ; 
but  the  general  laugh  warned  him  that  Coleridge  had 
the  majority  upon  his  side.  Moreover,  a  twinge  of 
conscience  told  him  poor  Coleridge  had  a  right  to 
retaliate,  after  certain  pretty  keen  attacks  from  his 
pen. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep, 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong. 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountain  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay. 

WORDSWORTH. 

But  we  sailed  onward  over  tranquil  seas, 
Wafted  by  airs  so  exquisitely  mild 

That  e'en  to  breathe  became  an  act  of  will,  and  sense  of 
pleasure. 

SHELLEY. 

AT  Lamb's  Wednesday  evenings  in  the  old  Temple 
precincts,  the  well-known  group  of  writers  and  philos 
ophers  strolled  in  from  Fleet  Street  under  the  arches 
on  the  Strand,  and  paced  the  fine  old  gardens  lying 
around  the  Temple  buildings,  until  they  reached  the 
dingy  red-brick  quadrangles,  and  climbed  the  creaking 
stairs  to  his  apartments.  There,  in  these  upper  rooms, 
where  the  long  twilight  and  the  sunset-glow  showed 
them  the  silver  glimmer  of  the  Thames,  with  its  many 
sails,  gathered  these  men  who  were  carving  their  names 
upon  the  records  of  the  busy,  driving  London.  Of  the 
throngs  that  crossed  these  gardens  and  Inns  of  Court, 
in  the  early  days  of  this  nineteenth  century,  these 
visitors  of  the  India  House  clerk  stand  out  in  full  relief. 


284       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Hazlitt,  the  merciless  satirist  and  critic,  who  spared  few 
men  of  his  times  the  thrusts  of  his  probing  criticisms ; 
Procter,  the  "  Barry  Cornwall  "  whose  name  is  still  a 
power  in  the  world  of  letters  ;  Talfourd,  the  shrewd 
lawyer,  destined  to  be  prominent  among  the  barristers 
of  his  day  ;  Rickman,  the  politician  of  liberal  views  and 
deeds ;  the  Burneys  ;  Godwin,  the  philosopher  and 
socialist ;  our  Lake  Poets  and  their  friends  ;  Rogers, 
the  rich  poet  and  banker  ;  Walter  Savage  Landor,  and 
Leigh  Hunt,  whose  places  in  belles  kttrcs  are  undis 
puted  : — all  still  gathered  here,  year  after  year,  held  by 
the  magnet  of  Lamb's  genial  wit,  and  the  attractions  of 
genius  and  congenial  spirits. 

It  was  an  understood  thing  among  Lamb's  coterie 
that  Godwin  found  the  whist  club  a  most  peaceful 
refuge  from  the  uncertain  tongue  and  temper  of  that 
"  Elisha-bear,"  as  Lamb  still  called  the  second  Mrs. 
Godwin.  She  had  angered  Lamb  by  misrepresenting  a 
remark  of  his  to  Godwin  ;  and  Lamb  could  not  forgive 
the  spirit  that  prompted  her  to  slander  him.  So  Charles 
and  Mary  had  seen  little  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft's 
little  girl  during  all  these  years  because  of  this  step 
mother.  "  She's  s-s-swallowed  by  the  '  Elisha-bear,' " 
he  would  say,  when  Mary  wondered  about  the  girl. 
Godwin  was  not  very  communicative,  and  Mary  learned 
little  from  him.  The  impecunious  philosopher  seemed 
to  care  more  for  his  quiet  naps  over  the  punch-bowl 
than  for  the  cards  or  friendly  chatter  of  the  "  Round 
Table,"  although  he  was  always  sufficiently  awake  to 
do  full  justice  to  the  cold  roast  or  the  veal  pie. 

Mary  said  the  Amazon  kept  him  upon  short  allow 
ance  at  home,  and  herself  always  managed  to  give  him 
the  lion's  share  of  the  simple  collations  that  were 


"  THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE."  285 

served  after  their  noisy  rubbers  of  whist.  Of  late 
Godwin  had  seemed  more  silent  and  troubled  than 
usual,  and  had  confided  to  Mary  that  family  cares 
were  pressing  rather  heavily.  As  he  was  in  a  chronic 
state  of  borrowing  from  Lamb  or  any  of  the  coterie 
who  seemed  ready  to  lend,  they  supposed  debts  were 
pressing,  as  usual. 

Godwin  had  spoken  to  Lamb  and  Coleridge  of  a  young 
scamp  of  a  poet  who  had  been  expelled  from  Oxford 
for  revolutionary  sentiments,  and  for  holding  atheistic 
and  Platonic  theories,  and  challenging  the  professors 
to  reply.  It  was  at  a  time  when  the  ferment  of  free- 
thought  was  causing  the  college  authorities  some 
trouble,  and  they  pounced  upon  the  erratic  young 
Shelley  as  a  scapegoat,  and  banished  him. 

Whilst  stinging  under  the  disappointment  of  a  spoiled 
career,  under  the  ban  of  Church  and  State,  and  thrust 
out  from  home  for  his  vagaries,  Shelley  had  rushed 
into  a  foolish  marriage  with  a  girl  of  humble  origin. 
The  poet  found  himself  with  no  future,  and  no  money, 
tied  to  a  wife  with  whom  he  could  find  nothing  in 
common.  True,  he  had  himself  to  thank  for  this  early 
shipwreck  of  his  life  ;  but  being  a  poet,  with  a  poet's 
keen  sensibilities,  this  did  not  make  his  trouble  lighter 
to  bear.  His  wife  flirted  and  coqueted  with  other 
men,  so  he  left  her,  and  plunged  into  foreign  travel ; 
but  he  could  not  adjust  his  life  to  its  lot.  The  apostle 
of  the  Necessarian  creed  gave  the  young  poet  much 
comfort.  And  being  frequently  at  Godwin's  house, 
he  was  thrown  with  the  two  pretty  young  daughters, 
Fanny  Imlay  and  Mary  Godwin,  Mary  Wollstonecraft's 
children.  Of  course  their  sympathies  quickly  followed 
the  handsome  young  poet  who  had  already  tasted  so 


286      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

much  of  the  injustice  and  bitterness  of  life.  Shelley 
soon  recognized  the  ardent  and  gifted  nature  of  Mary 
Godwin.  The  oftener  he  visited  his  friend  Godwin 
for  philosophic  comfort,  the  more  solace  he  found  in 
the  bright  eyes  and  tender  glances  of  Mary  Godwin. 
They  were  both  poetic,  enthusiastic,  and  ardent,  and 
life  had  used  both  badly  ;  for  Mary  felt  her  motherless- 
ness  the  more,  as  her  sensibilities  developed,  only  to 
be  checked  and  curbed  by  the  hard  and  practical  step 
mother. 

So,  upon  her  mother's  grave,  in  the  old  churchyard 
in  Holborn,  Shelley  and  Mary  Godwin  plighted  their 
troth — such  a  troth  as  a  disappointed  married  man 
and  Mary  Wollstonecraft's  motherless  daughter  could 
promise.  The  Necessarian,  who  held  erratic  views  upon 
marriage,  had  not  impressed  very  clear  ideas  of  duty 
upon  the  young  minds  under  his  care.  With  her  own 
mother's  sad  history  before  her,  the  young  girl  could 
scarcely  have  formed  correct  ideas  upon  matrimony 
under  Godwin's  tuition.  So,  in  her  loneliness  and  in 
fatuation,  she  agreed  to  elope  with  Shelley,  and  become 
his  wife  and  his  comforter.  His  high-flown  fancies 
seemed  a  beautiful  religion  to  the  girl  of  sixteen.  To 
make  the  elopement  more  proper,  Claire  Clairmont,  the 
second  Mrs.  Godwin's  daughter  by  a  former  marriage, 
insisted  upon  accompanying  the  fleeing  lovers,  whose 
plans  she  had  discovered. 

They  crossed  to  France,  and  started  upon  a  pedes 
trian  tour  of  the  Continent  with  the  small  capital  of  a 
few  pounds,  great  poetic  enthusiasm,  and  unbounded 
affection  and  sentiment.  This  strange  elopement,  in 
cluding  a  second  young  madcap  as  a  chaperon,  could 
scarcely  realize  the  ideal  of  these  young  dreamers. 


"  THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE"  287 

"  M-Mary,  who  do  you  suppose  has  d-d-decamped?" 
asked  Lamb,  hurrying  back  from  the  India  House,  the 
next  day. 

Mary  looked  blank  for  a  moment,  as  if  running  over 
the  list  of  possibles  and  impossibles,  and  said,  in 
quicker  time  than  I  can  tell  it,  "  Mary  Godwin  and 
that  little  fool-poet  ? " 

"  How  did  you  g-g-guess  it,  old  girl  ?  "  said  Lamb. 
"  Trust  you  for  smelling  out  a  m-m-matrimonial  alli 
ance!" 

"I  feared  it,"  said  Mary.  "William  Godwin  has 
talked  so  much  about  that  scapegrace  Shelley ;  and 
that  child  is  so  beautiful,  and  so  enthusiastic  and  un- 
guided !  The  Amazon  has  kept  her  too  close,  and  the 
rebound  was  sure  to  come." 

"  Humph  !  I  should  s-s-say  she  was  not  kept  close 
enough.  B-b-but  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it,  the  Ama 
zon's  g-girl  has  gone  with  them  ;  and  this  morning  the 
Elisha-bear  herself  f-fpllowed." 

"  To  bring  them  back  ?  "  gasped  Mary. 

"  Well,  he  could  h-h-hardly  marry  the  th-three  of 
them,"  stammered  Charles.  "  Poor  old  G-G-Godwin  ! 
No  wonder  he  has  looked  s-s-solemn  lately ;  I  suppose 
he  f-f-feared  some  entanglement." 

Mrs.  Godwin  returned  in  a  few  days,  without  her 
daughter.  Shelley  and  the  two  girls  had  left  Calais, 
and  she  could  find  no  clew  to  their  whereabouts. 

Poor  Fanny  Imlay  was  left  to  bear  the  full  brunt  of 
her  baffled  wrath,  as  Godwin  haunted  the  "  Three 
Feathers  "  and  the  "  White  Cat "  more  than  ever  ;  and 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  encouraged  him  to  take  many 
a  quiet  nap  at  their  cosy  chimney-corner. 

As  for  the  lovers,  they  soon  learned  that  even  love 


288       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

cannot  escape  the  thorns  and  brambles  of  life's  vicissi 
tudes.  They  had  to  walk  many  weary  miles  in  their 
wanderings.  A  little  donkey  which  Shelley  had 
bought  gave  the  girls  intervals  of  rest,  as  they  took 
turns  in  riding  him.  But  the  meager  fare  and  poor 
accommodations  their  scanty  means  could  give  them 
were  hard  upon  the  two  delicate  English  girls.  The 
beautiful  scenes  of  Switzerland  scarcely  compensated 
for  the  terrible  fatigue.  Mary  and  Shelley,  in  their 
perfect  congeniality  of  tastes,  could  have  forgotten 
fatigue  and  privations  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  glorious 
mountains  and  exquisite  lakes  ;  but  the  sympathetic 
tete-a-tetes  were  always  shared  by  the  much  complaining 
Claire.  She  had  cast  in  her  lot  with  theirs,  and  must 
now  share  the  privations  without  their  compensating 
love.  She  had  soon  become  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
and  since  they  had  been  unwise  enough  to  take  her 
from  her  home,  the  skeleton  must  share  their  weal  or 
their  woe  hereafter.  They  were  all  three  drifting 
along,  rudderless,  with  mistakes  and  wrong-doing  in 
their  wake,  and  no  safe  harbor  ahead.  Perhaps  the 
drifting  was  often  pleasant,  over  sunset-tinted  lakes, 
but  there  were  many  rocks  waiting  to  wreck  so  ill-guided 
a  bark. 

They  had  thrown  duty  and  reputation  to  the  winds, 
and  they  could  scarcely  expect  to  reap  aught  but  the 
whirlwind  of  condemnation,  poverty,  and  the  pricks  of 
conscience.  Despite  their  imperfect  religious  training 
and  their  vagaries  of  belief  and  imagination,  they  could 
not  break  God's  recognized  laws,  and  hold  up  their 
heads  as  though  they  were  upright  and  pure  in  heart. 
Whilst  feeling  around,  in  the  pride  of  his  intellect,  for 
a  formula  and  plane  of  belief  to  suit  his  imagination 


"  THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE."  289 

and  love  of  independence,  the  young  poet  had  made 
shipwreck  of  his  college  career.  For  revenge  and  the 
gratification  of  a  passing  fancy,  he  had  married  a 
woman  utterly  unsuited  to  his  station  and  nature.  Be 
coming  disgusted  with  lr_r  and  with  his  own  folly,  he 
had  deserted  her  and  turned  to  the  sympathy  of  the 
charming,  gifted  child,  whom  he  had  easily  induced  to 
try  to  make  amends  to  him  for  his  spoiled  life.  And 
now  they  were  enjoying  their  stolen  sweets  under  the 
fairest  skies,  and  amid  the  loveliest  scenes  of  God's 
beautiful  world.  But  such  roses  have  their  thorns. 

Shelley's  poet-soul  found  stories  of  all  the  great 
castles  clinging  to  the  rocks.  He  learned  or  invented 
legends  for  every  one.  He  made  the  girls  shudder  over 
the  sad  story  of  the  rival  brothers  of  Sterrenburg  and 
Leibenstein.  He  pictured  the  army  of  rats  and  mice 
that  besieged  Bishop  Hatto  and  devoured  him  in  the 
square  tower  at  Bingen,  opposite  the  old  castle  of 
Ehrenfels.  He  pictured  the  myriads  of  little  heads 
and  claws  emerging  from  the  slimy  stones,  and  forcing 
their  way  through  windows  and  under  doors,  until  the 
girls  fairly  shrieked  with  fright.  He  sang  of  the  Lorelei 
and  the  mystic  maidens,  with  their  luring  voices,  who 
beckoned  and  called  to  the  passing  boatmen,  until  they 
clung  to  the  side  of  their  little  boat,  and  implored  him 
to  hurry  by,  lest  they  too  should  fall  under  the  witch 
ing  spell. 

And  so  they  sailed  along,  week  after  week,  stopping 
when  and  where  they  pleased,  exploring  the  quaint  old 
towns,  and  climbing  over  many  a  grand  old  ruin  of 
fallen  castle  and  dismantled  tower.  Never  would  any 
of  that  trio  forget  the  wanderings  of  those  idyllic  days, 
charming  in  spite  of  the  lowering  cloud  of  conscious 


290       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

wrong-doing  that  ever  followed  them.  The  wronged 
wife,  though  left  behind,  was  an  unforgotten  presence  in 
their  midst,  and  the  anger  of  the  outraged  father,  who 
had  been  so  kind  to  the  girls  despite  his  poverty, 
haunted  the  sensitive  Mary  Godwin. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  HONOR  TO  WHOM  HONOR  IS  DUE." 

Say,  what  is  honor  ?    Tis  the  finest  sense 
Qi Justice  which  the  human  mind  can  frame — 
.     .     .     .     Honor  is  hopeful  elevation — whence, 
Glory  and  triumph. 

WORDSWORTH. 

IF  the  tidings  of  Southey's  appointment  to  the  Lau- 
reateship  were  criticised  by  Coleridge  and  some  other 
old  friends  who  did  not  like  to  think  of  Southey  as  a 
recipient  of  Court  favors,  the  news  was  received  far 
differently  at  the  busy  home  at  Keswick.  To  the 
simple  women  who  adored  him  as  their  god,  Southey 
was  only  receiving  the  just  tribute  to  his  genius. 

Edith  Southey,  careful  mother  and  housewife,  clung 
with  gratified  pride  to  him,  and  Aunt  Lovell  and  Sarah 
Coleridge  warmly  congratulated  him  upon  being 
appreciated  at  last.  The  boys  were  vociferous,  and 
the  two  sweet  young  girls,  Edith  Southey  and  Sara 
Coleridge,  danced  like  fairies  around  their  charmed 
Prince. 

"  Oh,  now  you  will  take  us  to  London,  won't  you, 
papa  ? "  "  Won't  you,  dear  uncle  ?  "  they  cried,  hang 
ing  around  his  neck,  and  jumping  around  him  to  snatch 
kisses,  like  doves  pecking  at  an  eagle. 

"  To  London  indeed  !  "  he  cried,  laughing,  whilst 
dodging  and  trying  to  ward  off  their  well-aimed  kisses. 


292       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  shall  have  a  chariot,  and  ride 
in  the  Queen's  processions,  with  nodding  plumes  in  my 
helmet,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  No,  uncle,  poets  wear  a  mantle  and  a  laurel  wreath, 
like  Dante,  don't  they  ?  "  asked  Sara. 

"  So  you  young  humbugs  would  like  to  see  me  look 
like  a  player  in  a  Twelfth  Night  play  ?  "  laughed  Southey. 

"  And  you  would  be  the  image  of  Dante,  with  your 
long  nose  and  dark  eyes,"  said  Edith. 

"  Well,  don't  anticipate  any  such  schemes  ;  I  fear 
you  will  not  see  any  access  of  grandeur.  I  have  even 
bargained  that  I  need  not  attend  the  Court  fetes — 
being  such  a  modest  man." 

"Oh,  papa!"  "  Oh,  uncle!"  said  the  girls  in  one 
breath,  "we  had  even  planned  what  we  would  wear." 

"  Vanitas  vanitatum  /"  he  exclaimed.  "Well!  I 
suppose  peacocks  will  be  peacocks !  " 

"  Even  though  they  be  males !  "  added  Edith  wick 
edly. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  many  inmates  of  that 
pleasant  home  grouped  about  the  tall,  handsome  man. 
He  was  never  too  busy  for  a  pleasant  word  or  a  joke, 
and  he  was  ever  ready  to  help  the  mother  in  her  tasks, 
or  the  boys  with  their  Latin  or  mathematics,  or  the  girls 
in  some  frolic  or  mischief.  Dora  Wordsworth,  the 
poet's  only  daughter,  was  very  intimate  with  the  two 
cousins,  and  a  lovely  trio  they  made.  Sara  Coleridge 
was  fair  as  a  lily,  with  soft  blonde  curls  and  luminous 
gray-blue  eyes  ;  sensitive,  dainty,  full  of  the  poetic  sen 
timents  that  her  delicate  face  portrayed,  and  with  a  well- 
cultured  mind,  that  had  developed  finely  under  her 
Uncle  Southey's  fostering  care.  She  was  even  now 
spending  much  of  her  leisure  in  translating  Dobrizhof- 


"HONOR  TO   WHOM  HONOR  IS  DUE."          293 

fer's  "  Account  of  the  Abipones,  an  Equestrian  People 
of  Paraguay,"  which  she  published  anonymously  in 
1822,  for  the  purpose  of  helping  Derwent  at  college. 
Coleridge's  pride  in  this  difficult  work  of  his  modest 
daughter  was  touching.  He  often  spoke  to  his  friends 
of  her  wonderful  patience  and  perseverance  in  translat 
ing  this  three-volume-octavo  Latin  book.  He  said,  "  It 
is,  in  my  judgment,  unsurpassed  for  pure  mother  Eng 
lish  by  anything  I  have  read  for  a  long  time."  Charles 
Lamb  also  wrote  to  Southey  of  his  wonder  at  the  quiet 
girl's  patience  in  "  digging  through  this  rugged  Para 
guay  mine." 

"  How  she  Dobrizhoffered\\.  all  out  puzzles  my  slender 
Latinity  to  conjecture,"  he  wrote.* 

The  imagination,  inherited  from  her  father,  found 
vent,  later,  in  the  dainty  romance,  "  Phantasmion," 
which  peopled  her  own  Lake  country  with  the  nymphs 
and  wind-sprites  which  the  girls  used  to  picture  in  their 
childhood. 

The  daughters  of  the  three  poets  lived  in  a  charming 
dreamland  of  their  own  evolved  from  their  environment 
and  the  influence  of  the  exalted  literary  and  poetic  at 
mosphere  of  their  fathers  and  their  friends.  Southey's 
ever-increasing  library  and  literary  work  was  a  wide 
field  ;  Wordsworth's  poetic  dreams  invested  their  rustic 
life  with  high  ideals  ;  and  Coleridge's  philosophies  and 
eloquence  made  these  children  of  the  Lakes  at  home 
amid  the  elevations  of  genius.  There  was  no  dead  level 
of  commonplace  in  their  world.  Childhood  and  youth, 
sprung  from  such  surroundings,  develop  into  finer 
essence  than  those  from  common  clay — although  the 
children  of  geniuses  seldom  create  or  perpetuate  similar 
*  "Lamb's  Letters." 


294      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

effusions.  In  Wordsworth's  charming  tribute  to  the 
three  girls  in  "The  Triad,"  he  pictures  Sara  in  such 
terms,  that  friends  of  Coleridge's  supposed  the  sketch  a 
personification  of  Faith.  He  wrote  : 

"  Her  brow  hath  opened  on  me — see  it  there 
Brightening  the  umbrage  of  her  hair. 
So  gleams  the  crescent  moon  that  loves 
To  be  descried  through  shady  groves. 
Nor  dread  the  depth  of  meditative  eye, 
But  let  thy  love  upon  that  azure  field 
Of  thoughtfulness  and  beauty  yield 
Its  homage,  offered  up  to  purity. 
.     .     .     .     In  sunny  glade, 
Or  under  leaves  of  thickest  shade, 
Was  such  a  stillness  e'er  diffused 
Since  earth  grew  calm,  while  angels  mused  ? 
Softly  she  treads,  as  if  her  foot  were  loth 
To  crush  the  mountain  dew-drops,  soon  to  melt 
On  the  flower's  breast.     As  if  she  felt 
That  flowers  themselves,  whate'er  their  hue, 
With  all  their  fragrance  and  their  glistening, 
Call  to  the  heart  for  inward  listening." 

Of  Edith  Southey,  gravest,  most  sedate  of  the  three, 
the  kind,  helpful  daughter,  he  wrote  : 

"  O  lady,  worthy  of  Earth's  proudest  throne, 
No  less  by  excellence  of  Nature  fit 
Beside  an  unambitious  hearth  to  sit — 
Domestic  Queen,  where  grandeur  is  unknown." 

And  of  Dora  Wordsworth,  the  youngest  of  the  three  ; 
wild  as  a  gypsy,  yet  timid  and  gentle  as  a  doe,  he 
wrote  : 

"  How  vivid,  yet  how  delicate  her  glee. 
Flower  of  the  Wind.     .     .     . 
For  she,  to  all  but  those  who  love  her  shy, 
Would  gladly  vanish  from  a  stranger's  sight.     .     .     . 


"  HONOR  TO  WHOM  HONOR  IS  DUE."          295 

Her  happy  spirit,  as  a  bird,  is  free.     .     .     . 

A  face  o'er  which  a  thousand  shadows  go.     .     .     . 

Like  the  lowly  reed,  her  love 

Can  drink  its  nurture  from  the  scantiest  rill." 

The  poetic  appreciation  of  her  bright,  lovable  quali 
ties,  added  to  the  father-love,  makes  the  tribute  espe 
cially  pleasing.  In  his  praise,  one  sees  the  restraint  he 
puts  upon  his  pen,  lest  his  own  child  should  have  more 
than  her  share  of  the  eulogy  given  to  the  three  friends. 

Was  ever  sweeter  praise  from  worthier  source  ? 

The  daughters  and  sons  of  these  three  families  formed 
a  charming,  social  group  in  the  quiet  Lake  country. 
They  formed  warm  friendships  among  their  neighbors  ; 
but  the  home  circle  was  ever  the  dearest  spot  to  all, 
save  to  Hartley  Coleridge,  who  had  something  of  Cole 
ridge's  love  of  genial  company  and  wayside  oratory. 

Sara  and  Hartley  inherited  much  of  their  father's 
talent.  They  both  wrote  charming  verses,  and  had  that 
delicate  susceptibility  to  the  beautiful  in  Nature  and 
Art  that  marks  the  truly  poetic  temperament.  Robert 
Southey  watched  them  and  the  sturdy  Derwent  with  as 
warm  an  interest  as  his  own  children.  He  dreaded  the 
tendency  that  Hartley  showed  towards  self-indulgence 
and  idle  dreaming.  He  feared  the  indications  of  these 
inherited  traits,  and,  with  Sarah,  did  all  in  his  power  to 
combat  this  weakness  of  will.  The  only  severity  that 
Southey  ever  showed  was  when  Hartley  shirked  some 
task  or  lesson,  or  slipped  off  for  an  evening  at  the  Inn, 
where  his  wit  and  talents  made  him  a  most  welcome 
visitor. 

He  had  been  sent  to  Oxford  by  his  uncle  and  by 
some  friends  of  Coleridge,  who  felt  they  would  like 
in  this  way  to  help  the  unfortunate  poet.  But  while 


296       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Hartley  was  always  a  great  favorite,  certain  eccentrici 
ties  made  his  family  anxious  about  him.  His  college 
record  was  not  as  good  as  it  should  be.  Still,  he  was 
his  sister's  darling.  And  one  of  the  little  group  of 
friends  was  especially  interested  in  everything  belong 
ing  to  Hartley.  Dora  Wordsworth  had  clung  to  him 
from  babyhood,  and  now  she  vied  with  his  sister  and 
cousin  in  fashioning  mittens  and  comforters  and  Christ 
mas  surprises  for  Hartley.  And  when  the  examina 
tions  came,  and  Hartley  failed  to  bring  home  the  honors 
that  they  expected,  Dora  had  the  tenderest  excuses 
and  the  warmest  comfort  for  poor  Hartley.  At  last,  in 
the  midst  of  eager  Christmas  preparations  and  loving 
Christmas  secrets,  when  Hartley  should  come  home 
with  honors  and  crown  them  with  the  radiance  of  his 
glory,  he  came  back  sullen  and  disgraced.  He  and  some 
companions  had  fallen  into  careless,  desultory  ways,  and 
had  been  reprimanded  several  times,  and  finally,  after 
some  escapade,  he,  with  several  others,  had  been  ex 
pelled  ! 

Oh,  the  misery  of  it  to  the  poor,  anxious,  disappointed 
mother  !  She  had  so  watched  him,  and  agonized  over 
his  careless,  easy-going  ways.  She  had  prayed  over 
him  and  warned  him,  and  now  her  boy  had  come  back 
disgraced  !  The  knowledge  of  his  son's  lost  career 
nearly  broke  Coleridge's  heart.  He  remembered  his 
own  wasted  opportunities,  and  grieved  the  more  that 
his  son  should  lose  the  chance  of  fitting  himself  for  the 
life-battle.  And  Hartley,  himself,  was  never  again  the 
same  light-hearted,  high-spirited  fellow. 

He  came  home  more  eccentric  than  ever,  and  would 
disappear  for  days  together,  and  return,  morose  and 
silent,  allowing  no  word  of  remonstrance. 


"  HONOR  TO   WHOM  HONOR  IS  £>(/£."          297 

Through  his  friend's  influence  he  secured  the  posi 
tion,  at  Ambleside,  of  teacher  of  the  village  school, 
which  unpretending  office  he  retained  for  many  years. 
Here  he  was  nearer  Wordsworth,  his  father's  dear 
friend,  and  he  could  easily  seek  Dora  for  comfort  and 
encouragement.  But  William  Wordsworth  and  his 
wife  and  the  vigilant  Aunt  Dorothy  could  not  let  their 
darling  waste  her  young  heart  upon  as  uncertain  and 
unsteady  a  fellow  as  Hartley  Coleridge. 

Aunt  Dorothy  herself  had  a  warm  spot  for  Cole 
ridge's  son  ;  but  she  kept  close  guard  upon  Dora,  lest 
Hartley  Coleridge  should  come  a-courting. 

Only  when  they  feared  danger  to  their  pet  did  they 
fully  realize  what  it  would  be  for  her  to  be  allied  to  a 
man  as  erratic  and  uncertain  as  was  Coleridge.  Hartley 
should  never  have  the  chance  to  treat  their  Dora  as  his 
father  had  treated  Sarah  Coleridge.  It  was  only 
through  their  fears  of  the  son  that  they  understood 
where  the  great  fault  of  the  father  lay,  and  realized  that 
Hartley  had  inherited  Coleridge's  tendency  to  a  weak 
will  and  erratic  life.  Even  now,  Hartley's  good  stories 
and  bright  wit  made  him  so  popular  at  the  Inn  and 
by  the  roadside,  that  he  never  knew  when  to  go  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


O  world  !  O  life  !  O  time ! 

On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 
Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before, — 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 

No  more — oh  nevermore  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 

A  joy  has  taken  flight ; 

Fresh  Spring  and  Summer,  and  Winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief, — but  with  delight 

No  more — oh  nevermore! 

SHELLEY. 

THE  Shelleys  had  returned  to  London,  poor  and 
friendless.  Godwin  refused  to  see  the  girls,  and  Shel 
ley's  father  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  So  the 
two  girls  had  a  mean  little  lodging,  and  Shelley  slept 
wherever  he  could,  coming  to  see  his  wife  every  day, 
and  bringing  whatever  pittance  he  could  earn  by  writ 
ing,  and  all  the  tenderness  and  comfort  that  a  sincere 
love  could  offer.  Mary  Shelley  was  sick  and  wretched, 
and  the  only  comfort  she  could  have — her  husband's 
ministrations — was  denied  her  in  these  days  of  extreme 
poverty.  She  remembered  her  good  friend  Miss  Lamb, 
and  sent  a  message  begging  her  to  visit  her.  Mary 
Lamb  hastened  to  the  poor  young  thing,  and  found  her 
lacking  the  very  necessaries  of  life,  with  Claire  fretful 
and  fault-finding — a  wretched  burden  to  the  young 


"  THE  WAGES  OF  SIX  IS  DEATH?  299 

couple.  Often  the  poet  and  his  wife  would  not  have 
a  penny  to  pay  for  a  dinner,  but  would  dine  upon  a 
few  cakes  or  buns  that  Shelley  would  bring  in.  Yet 
they  were  cheerful  and  even  hopeful,  and  only  Claire 
complained.  When  Mary's  baby  was  born,  and  the 
little  thing  died,  she  grieved  sorely,  although  it  was 
well  there  was  not  another  mouth  to  feed. 

Mary  Lamb  was  as  tender  and  kind  to  the  poor  out 
cast  as  she  was  to  everything  that  needed  her  help. 
She  carried  the  sick  girl  clothing  and  food  from  her 
own  little  store,  and  she  made  Godwin  do  what  he  could 
for  his  daughter. 

One  morning,  before  the  breakfast  dishes  had  been 
cleared  away,  the  sloppy  little  drudge  announced  "  Miss 
Lamb  "  to  the  astonished  couple. 

Godwin  looked  alarmed  and  somewhat  foolish,  and 
Mrs.  Godwin  straightened  up  defiantly,  as  she  stiffly 
greeted  the  mild-looking  guest. 

"It  is  a  long  while  since  you  have  honored  us,  Miss 
Lamb,"  she  said,  tartly. 

"  I  am  but  a  poor  visitor,"  said  Man',  flushing. 
"  You  know  my  poor  health  prevents  me  from  doing 
much  visiting :  but  this  morning  I  wanted  particularly 
to  see  you — both,''  she  added,  as  she  saw  Godwin 
preparing  to  escape.  "  I  have  spent  several  days  with 
your  daughters,  who  are  most  anxious  to  see  you  both. 
Mary's  baby  died  yesterday,  and  she  has  not  even  the 
means  to  bun-  it,  or  food  enough  to  build  up  her  wasted 
strength,"  said  Mary,  with  tears  in  her  kind  gray  eyes. 

Godwin  twisted  uncomfortably  in  his  chair,  and  Mrs. 
Godwin  said,  with  a  snort,  "  You  have  no  right  to  come 
here  upon  such  a  matter ;  you  know  these  wretched 
girls  have  disgraced  us." 


300     THE  DAYS  OF  L AMR  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  I  think,  Mrs.  Godwin,  they  have  suffered  enough 
to  atone  for  their  foolishness.  Shelley  and  Mary 
have  simply  nothing  to  live  upon,  and  yet  they  must 
share  their  crusts  with  your  daughter,  who  should  at 
least  be  under  her  own  mother's  roof  and  protection." 

"  And  whose  fault  is  it,  pray,  that  she  is  not  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Godwin  wrathfully. 

"Ah!  Mrs.  Godwin,  it  is  too  late  now  to  talk  of 
whose  fault  it  may  be.  Who  of  us  lives  up  to  our 
whole  duty  ?  I  say,  again,  your  daughter's  place  is  at 
home  with  her  family,  before  worse  comes  to  her." 

"  Then  let  her  crawl  back  and  ask  pardon,  if  she  is 
penitent,"  said  the  angry  mother. 

"  May  I  tell  her  so  ? "  asked  Mary  gently.  "  She  is 
afraid  to  come  here  when  she  has  so  deeply  offended 
you.  May  I  tell  her  you  will  forgive  her  if  she  asks 
your  pardon  ?  " 

"  It  seems  odd  for  a  stranger  to  be  interfering  with 
our  affairs,"  said  Mrs.  Godwin  angrily. 

"  Not  a  stranger,  but  a  real  friend  of  those  foolish 
girls,"  said  Mary,  timidly  holding  her  ground  and  look 
ing  full  at  William  Godwin. 

"Yes,  yes,  Mary  Lamb,  thou  hast  ever  been  kind  to 
the  little  hussy,"  said  Godwin.  "  We  will  see  those 
poor  foolish  children.  I  have  but  little  help  I  can  give 
them  ;  my  own  debts  press  heavily ;  but  Claire  shall 
come  home,  and  I  will  see  Mary  and  that  young  fool." 
So  Claire  came  home,  and  Godwin  and  the  Lambs  did 
what  they  could  to  help  the  Shelleys. 

A  month  or  two  later,  Charles  Lamb  hurried  home 
one  evening,  with  such  alacrity  in  his  step,  and  such 
especial  good-humor  beaming  from  his  eyes,  that  Mary 
knew  he  had  good  news  for  her. 


"  THE  WAGES  OF  SIN  IS  DEATH."  301 

"  Well,  brother,  is  Coleridge  or  Manning  coming  up 
to  town  that  you  seem  so  gay  ?  " 

"No,  B-B- Bridget,  but  s-s- somebody's  dead." 

"  Dead  !  "  said  Mary,  aghast ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  An  old  s-s-scion  of  the  aristocracy  has '  sh-sh-shuffled 
off  this  mortal  coil,'  and  some  b-b-beggars  will  ride  to  his 
funeral.  Not  knowing  the  d-d-defunct,  I  can  but  rejoice 
with  the  b-b-beneficiaries.  Shelley's  grandfather  has 
k-k-kindly  departed  in  the  n-n-nick  of  time,  and  couldn't 
c-c-carry  his  estates  and  p-p-possessions  to  old  Nick 
with  him,"  said  Lamb,  with  a  wicked  twinkle,  "  and 
they  are  entailed  upon  Shelley." 

"  Does  not  that  seem  like  the  hand  of  Providence, — 
just  when  those  poor  Shelleys  are  at  their  wits'  ends  for 
a  living  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  Umph  !  you  know  they  say  the  d-d-devil  takes  care 
of  his  own,"  said  Lamb ;  "  but,  God  or  devil,  it  is  a 
blessed  windfall  for  them." 

"  You  know  '  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb,'  Charles." 

"  Now,  Polly,  have  we  not  waited  these  t-t-twenty 
years,  and  the  only  t-t-temper  I  have  found  has  been 
thy  tongue,  when  I  have  tried  to  find  c-c-comfort  in 
my  c-c-cups." 

Mary  laughed  at  his  adroit  allusion  to  their  little 
battles  over  Charles's  propensities.  She  had  to  watch 
this  genial  brother  carefully,  especially  upon  their  whist 
evenings  ;  for  he  was  becoming  more  and  more  addicted 
to  drowning  cares  and  disappointments  in  the  steaming 
punch-bowl. 

After  the  Shelleys  received  their  inheritance,  or 
rather  the  pension  allowed  the  young  poet  by  his 
father,  in  place  of  the  direct  inheritance,  they  lost  no 


302       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

time  in  settling  in  a  comfortable  place,  where  Shelley 
could  write,  and  Mary  could  learn  the  happiness  of 
having  a  home  of  her  own. 

And  happiness  might  have  dwelt  with  these  two  who 
seemed  so  well  adapted  to  enjoy  each  other,  if  the 
shadow  of  their  wrong-doing  had  not  pursued  them. 
Harriet,  Shelley's  legal  wife,  followed  the  poet  with 
angry  complaints,  and  compelled  him  to  divide  his 
pension  with  her.  Even  this  did  not  satisfy  her,  and 
she  insisted  upon  seeing  Mary  and  tormenting  her 
with  the  wrong  and  suffering  they  were  causing  her. 
Verily  "  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard,"  as  Mary 
Godwin  learned  every  day.  She  knew  his  former  wife 
was  using  all  her  wiles  and  claims  to  lure  her  husband 
back;  and  between  her  fears  and  her  conscience  she 
did  not  know  whether  indignation  at,  or  pity  for,  this 
deserted  wife  was  the  stronger  in  her  heart.  She  knew 
that  Shelley  loved  her  now  ;  but  would  he,  who  had 
once  forsaken  duty  and  love,  be  true  to  her  who  had 
only  the  claims  of  love  upon  him  ?  So  the  young  girl 
grieved  and  feared,  and  they  decided  to  leave  England, 
where  both  had  found  so  much  of  disappointment  and 
sorrow.  Shelley  made  generous  provision  for  the 
father-in-law  who  had  so  grudgingly  forgiven  him,  and 
for  his  wife  ;  and  again  Claire  accompanied  them,  having 
become  entangled  in  a  love  affair  with  Lord  Byron, 
who  had  but  lately  married  the  cold  and  haughty 
Miss  Milbanke.  Byron's  great  popularity;  as  poet  and 
social  favorite,  was  waning.  Many  ugly  rumors  were 
afloat  about  the  handsome  young  rout,  whose  burning 
glances  and  passionate  poems  made  him  so  fascinating 
and  dangerous  a  companion  to  the  London  debutantes. 
Mammas  were  beginning  to  look  anxious  when  he  bent 


"  THE  WAGES  OF  SIN  IS  DEATH."  303 

over  their  pretty  daughters,  and  society  was  grad 
ually  turning  a  cold  shoulder  towards  this  last  year's 
favorite. 

His  stately  wife  watched  him  nervously,  and  was  not 
able  to  conceal  a  certain  disdain  or  unhappiness  which 
had  settled  upon  her  rather  plain  face. 

The  gossips  had  wondered  at  the  match,  as  she 
seemed  scarcely  the  woman  they  would  have  expected 
a  pleasure-loving  poet  to  choose. 

And  equally  did  her  friends  wonder  at  her  choice ; 
for  she  was  considered  rather  a  prude,  and  Byron 
was  a  recognized  libertine.  But  when,  a  few  months 
later,  Lady  Byron  left  her  husband's  home,  and  refused 
to  return  or  make  any  explanation,  the  storm  broke 
and  fell  gradually  upon  his  head. 

The  gossips  had  known  him  to  be  a  wicked  rake. 
They  did  not  know  how  he  had  treated  poor  Lady 
Byron  ;  but  they  did  know  he  was  a  monster.  Their 
doors  were  closed  upon  him.  There  was  no  pity,  no 
sympathy.  His  pious  wife  would  not,  or  could  not, 
live  with  him.  There  was  something  wrong,  something 
so  terrible,  that  only  silence  could  express  it.  No 
explanations  were  given  ;  no  explanations  were  needed. 
He  was  an  outcast  from  that  day,  with  no  chance  to 
defend  himself.  They  forgot  "  Childe  Harold."  Doubt 
less  the  man  who  could  write  "  Don  Juan "  was  a 
heartless  libertine ;  but  he  had  not  written  it  then. 
That  emanated  from  his  later  life,  when  he  was  an  out 
cast  and  an  exile  from  home  and  country,  wife  and 
child.  Doubtless  his  life  was  full  of  imperfections,  in 
a  day  when  men  lived  high  and  gave  free  rein  to  pas 
sions  and  vices  that  a  later  civilization  holds  in  check 
• — at  least,  outwardly.  But  whatever  his  deserts,  his 


304      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

fate  was  hard,  as  society  used  him  as  the  scape  goat 
for  a  loose  state  of  morals  that  needed  reforming  in 
England.  Every  now  and  then  the  morals  and  man 
ners  of  "  Society  "  need  purification  and  a  wholesome 
lesson,  and  the  culprit  who  is  caught  at  that  time  bears 
his  own  and  his  neighbors'  punishment.  Lord  Byron 
was  that  culprit  in  his  decade,  and  was  pursued  with  a 
scorn  and  hatred  for  his  many  known  and  unknown 
sins,  that  made  him  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  ended  his  young  life  in  an  ignominy  where 
there  was  no  room  left  him  for  repentance  or  reforma 
tion. 

It  is  not  strange  that  Shelley  and  Byron  should 
have  become  intimate.  Poetry  is  a  strong  magnet  to 
attract  its  votaries,  and  these  two  poets  were  similarly 
scorned  by  their  countrymen,  and  ruthlessly  banished 
from  society  by  the  rigors  and  narrowness  of  newly- 
awakened  public  opinion.  Each  was  the  scape-goat  of 
his  day,  and  bore  the  punishment  due  to  the  whole 
race  of  similar  offenders  :  Shelley,  as  skeptic  and  free 
thinker  ;  Byron,  as  libertine. 

In  his  gloomy  days,  when  society  was  fast  closing  its 
doors  to  him,  Byron  was  thrown  much  with  the  Shelleys, 
and  was  comforted  by  Claire's  unstinted  sympathy  and 
adoration.  In  his  banishment  from  wife,  home,  and 
country,  the  tie  grew  closer  between  Byron  and  the 
Shelleys.  In  Italy  they  could  enjoy  God's  beautiful 
world,  screened  from  the  venom  of  critical  and  gossip 
ing  tongues,  and  enjoy  a  happiness  denied  them  in 
their  own  country. 

The  Godwins  kept  this  new  trial  as  quiet  as  possible. 
Some  few  old  friends  heard  rumors  of  Byron's  intimacy 
with  Mrs.  Godwin's  daughter,  but  nothing  was  known 


"  THE  WAGES  OF  SIN  IS  DEA  TIL"  305 

positively,  and  the  flight  to  the  Continent  might  be 
but  a  continuation  of  the  first  folly.  But  poor  Godwin 
had  grown  very  taciturn.  Married  life  and  the  very 
unusual  cares  it  brought  him,  with  his  increasing 
poverty  and  debts,  wrought  a  sad  change  in  the  old 
philosopher. 

At  home,  Mrs.  Godwin's  temper  was  not  sweetened 
by  this  fresh  blow  to  her  pride,  and  poor  Fanny  Imlay 
had  the  whole  brunt  of  the  domestic  woes  and 
cares  thrust  upon  her.  She  saw  her  kind  step-father 
overwhelmed  with  debt  and  disappointment.  She 
suffered  keenly  from  the  obloquy  that  had  fallen  upon 
the  family  ever  since  Mary  and  Claire  had  first  left 
home.  And  now,  with  this  new  complication,  and  the 
comments  and  questions  about  Claire  that  she  could 
not  endure  to  hear,  her  patience  and  endurance  were 
gone.  There  was  nothing  in  life  but  sorrow  and  dis 
grace.  She  tried  to  support  herself  by  teaching  or  as 
a  companion,  but  the  scandals  about  her  family  closed 
all  doors  upon  her.  She  brooded  in  uncomplaining 
bitterness  of  spirit,  day  by  day  and  week  after  week. 
Mary  Lamb  was  a  kind  friend  and  comforter ;  but  the 
shy  girl  could  not  speak  of  the  worst  of  her  troubles  to 
any  human  ear,  and  the  Heavenly  Father  seemed  so 
far  away,  so  pitiless !  Daily  she  grew  sadder  and 
more  pathetic  in  her  lonely  sorrow.  The  angry  step 
mother  visited  her  own  misery  upon  the  patient  young 
thing  who  was  in  her  power.  Fanny  sat  in  her  bed 
chamber  through  many  long  nights,  softly  moaning 
and  weeping.  There  was  no  escape,  no  future  for  her, 
no  hope,  even  no  work,  to  help  keep  her  foster-father 
from  the  debtor's  prison.  All  the  grief  in  Mary 
Wollstonecraft's  heart,  when  deserted  by  the  faithless 

20 


306       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Imlay,  seemed  poured  out  in  her  daughter's  nature. 
Poor  Fanny  was  overwhelmed,  bewildered,  by  the 
cruelty  of  her  fate.  "  Why  should  she  live  ?  There  was 
no  place  for  her,"  was  repeated  over  and  over  in  her 
tired  heart,  until  there  was  but  the  one  thought — Death. 
Death  seemed  such  a  blessed  relief  from  the  daily 
repetition  of  worry,  anxiety,  and  despair. 

One  morning,  filled  with  the  thought  of  life's  endless 
dreariness  and  death's  kind  reprieve,  she  dressed  her 
self  carefully  in  plain  clothes,  leaving  behind  all  articles 
that  might  give  a  clew  to  her  identity. 

She  left  home,  pretending  she  would  seek  a  situation 
of  some  sort  until  she  found  one.  She  took  a  boat  to 
Swansea  and  paid  her  last  shilling  for  a  room  at  the  inn. 
She  wrote  a  letter  that  compromised  no  one,  saying, 
"  she  was  but  a  lonely  woman  of  unfortunate  birth  and 
no  connections,  who  was  weary  of  life.  .  .  .  She  would 
pass  unknown  from  a  life  that  held  no  place  for  her, 
and  she  prayed  Christian  burial  for  the  body  that  she 
hoped  and  believed  had  wronged  no  one,  praying  a 
merciful  Father  to  save  her  soul, — if  she  had  a  soul."  * 

The  London  papers,  two  days  afterwards,  were  filled 
with  accounts  of  a  suicide  at  Swansea  of  a  beautiful 
girl  of  about  twenty,  describing  the  delicate  features 
and  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  publishing  the  letter  found 
by  her  bed. 

The  Godwins  had  become  alarmed  at  Fanny's  long 
absence,  and  finding  she  was  not  at  the  Lambs',  some 
one  suggested  the  possibility  that  her  evident  depres 
sion  had  affected  her  mind.  The  notices  of  the  un 
known  suicide  at  Swansea  seemed  ominously  like 
Fanny  Imlay  ;  and  William  Godwin  and  Charles  Lamb 
*  "  Life  of  Mary  Godwin  Shelley." — ROSETTI. 


"  THE  WAGES  OF  SIAT  IS  DEATH."  307 

went  to  the  inn  at  Swansea,  and  at  once  recognized 
poor  Fanny,  still  and  cold  in  death.  They  wept  bitterly 
at  the  sad  sight,  and  buried  the  poor  child  with  as  little 
publicity  as  possible. 

They  were  able  to  hush  up  the  affair,  and  very  few 
persons  ever  knew  that  the  young  suicide  at  Swansea 
was  Godwin's  step-daughter,  the  quiet  little  Fanny  Imlay. 
The  poor  little  life  had  gone  out  like  a  snuffed  candle, 
and  she  had,  as  she  said,  so  small  a  place  in  the  world 
that  it  never  missed  her. 

The  life,  shadowed  by  her  mother's  sin  and  her 
sister's  wrong-doing,  had  never  shone  out  into  notice, 
and  the  feeble  light  had  gone  out  into  the  thick  dark 
ness  of  the  great  unknown. 

The  Shelleys  had  wandered  hither  and  thither  in 
Switzerland  and  Italy.  When  the  news  of  Fanny's 
death  reached  them,  they  were  with  Byron  at  Lake 
Leman, sailing  and  rowing  over  the  lovely  blue  waters. 
They  had  visited  Chillon  Castle,  and  watched  the  sun 
playing  upon  the  fine  towers  and  over  the  gray  walls, 
and  sending  its  one  shaft  at  sunset  into  the  black, 
pillared  dungeon  where  Bonnivard  and  his  sons  had 
watched  that  same  evening  ray  pierce  the  narrow  slit 
in  the  wall,  at  sunset,  all  those  weary  years.  Here,  and 
in  the  beautiful  garden  adjoining  the  castle,  with  its 
oranges  and  roses  and  wisteria,  Byron  wrote  the  poem 
that  has  given  him  his  widest  fame. 

And  here,  in  this  same  lovely  spot,  where  they  leaned 
over  the  marble  balustrades,  all  ivy-grown,  and  watched 
the  moon  silvering  the  turrets  and  towers  of  Chillon, 
did  the  Shelleys  and  Claire  hear  of  the  death  of  their 
half-sister. 

They  had  been  rioting  in  the  beautiful  scenes   about 


308      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMli  A. YD  COLERIDGE. 

them — these  poets  full  of  passion  and  the  love  of  the 
beautiful. 

They  had  watched  the  rosy  and  blue  tints  of  the  many 
hills  and  mountains  encircling  Lake  Geneva,  and  chang 
ing  their  opal  hues  with  each  turn  of  the  boat,  or  passing 
cloud.  They  had  watched  the  violet  and  blue  mount 
ains  stretch  off  to  the  glowing  silver  lines  of  the  Dents 
du  Midi  where  they  peep  over  the  shoulders  of  the  rosy 
peaks  that  enclose  them.  And  they  had  floated  idly 
for  days  upon  the  blue,  blue-waters,  under  the  clear  blue 
skies.  They  had  dreamed  of  love  and  poetry ;  of  the 
olden  days  and  the  stately  castle,  in  the  rose-covered 
cottage  which  was  now  their  home.  They  had  written 
songs  and  poems,  and  had  sung  them  in  the  evening 
glow,  upon  the  lake.  Now,  again  their  golden  idyl  was 
shattered.  Death  had  awakened  them  from  their  poets' 
dreams.  They  all  felt  that  in  some  way,  they  had 
helped  poison  that  poor  patient  life.  The  shadow  hung 
over  them,  in  castle,  lake,  or  cottage.  Their  stories 
grew  weird  and  wild,  and  their  overwrought  nerves 
fancied  death  and  mourning  in  every  sigh  of  the  breeze. 
To  shake  off  remorse  and  grief,  they  challenged  each 
other  to  wrrite  stories  and  poems  to  amuse  and  crowd 
out  sad  memories  during  the  evenings. 

Shelley  and  Byron,  Mary  and  Claire,  with  an  occa 
sional  visit  from  Trelawny,  who  was  also  staying  near, 
spent  their  days  writing  stories  for  those  haunted 
evenings.  Byron's  "  Dream  of  Darkness  "  was  one  of 
his  contributions  to  their  evenings'  entertainments.  And 
Shelley's  wild  stories,  and  Claire's  more  commonplace 
ones,  were  all  eclipsed  by  the  fascinating  horrors  of 
Mary  Shelley's  horrid  inspiration — "  Frankenstein." 
This  girl  of  eighteen  created  a  monster  of  strength, 


"  THE  WAGES  OF  SIN  IS  DEATH."  309 

cunning,  and  wickedness — a  great  distorted  body,  with 
out  a  soul.  The  psychological  questions,  the  mocking 
of  evil  without  the  balance-wheel  of  principle  and  con 
science,  are  so  well  understood,  and  so  carefully  de 
picted,  that  we  realize  that  her  talent  was  well  mated 
with  Shelley's  inspired  genius. 

Mary  Shelley's  companions  were  as  astonished  at  her 
story  as  the  world  has  been  ever  since  its  publication. 
It  shows,  however,  the  nervous  and  unsettled  condition 
of  the  writer's  mind  at  this  time.  Fortunately,  the 
arrival  of  a  little  son  turned  the  channels  of  her 
thoughts,  and  perhaps  saved  her  mind  from  becoming 
utterly  unbalanced.  The  little  baby  claimed  her  time 
and  attention,  and  filled  her  heart  with  sweet  new 
thoughts  and  love. 

Another  shock  was  awaiting  them.  Harriet,  Shelley's 
wife,  becoming  a  prey  to  remorse,  jealousy,  and  despair, 
drowned  herself  in  the  Serpentine,  in  Hyde  Park.  Here 
was  another  blow  and  mortification.  Shelley's  sensi 
tive  nature  was  stung  to  the  quick. 

He  felt  the  full  force  of  his  part  in  this  tragedy. 
Harriet  had  been  vain  and  foolish,  and  had  driven  him 
to  leave  her  by  her  conduct  with  other  men,  yet  he 
knew  she  always  loved  him,  and  had  taken  her  life  in 
her  despair  at  losing  him.  He  was  haunted  with 
misery  and  self-reproach.  The  one  consolation  re 
mained,  that  he  and  Mary  could  now  marry,  which  they 
did  at  once. 

Beautiful  Geneva  Lake  became  hateful  to  the  Shelleys, 
and  as  soon  as  possible  they  gave  up  their  charming 
little  cottage  and  settled  here  and  there  in  Italy,  as 
the  spirit  moved  them,  or  their  restlessness  permitted. 
They  visited  Milan,  Florence,  Pisa,  Leghorn,  the  baths 


3io       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

of  Lucca,  Venice,  and  settled  in  Rome  for  the  winter. 
They  lived  in  Byron's  castle  at  Este,  but  Claire  lost  her 
little  girl  (Byron's  child),  and  they  again  craved  change 
and  spent  the  following  winter  at  Naples.  Here,  in 
this  land  of  art,  Shelley  absorbed  the  spirit  of  art  and 
love  of  the  pictures  and  sculpture  that  abound  in  Italy. 
Here,  at  the  Doria  and  Colonna  palaces,  he  saw  the 
exquisite  pictures  of  Beatrice  Cenci  which  inspired  him 
to  write  the  beautiful  drama  of  the  Cenci.  But  at 
Rome  they  lost  their  eldest  boy,  and  again  fled  from 
their  gloom  and  sorrow  to  Florence,  and  finally  settled 
at  Lerici,  on  the  Bay  of  Spezzia. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

CHANCE  AND  CHANGE. 

The  man  must  have  a  rare  recipe  for  melancholy  who  can  be 
dull  in  Fleet  Street. — Often  when  I  have  felt  dull  at  home,  have 
I  rushed  into  the  crowded  Strand  and  fed  my  humor  till  the  tears 
have  wetted  my  cheek  for  unutterable  sympathies  with  the  multi 
tudinous,  moving  picture.  ...  I  love  the  very  smoke  of  London, 
because  it  has  been  the  medicine  most  familiar  to  my  vision. 
Thus  an  act  of  extracting  morality  from  the  commonest  incidents 
of  a  town  life  is  attained  by  the  same  well-natured  alchemy  by  which 
the  foresters  of  Arden  "  find  tongues  in  trees." 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

WHILST  the  Shelleys  were  roaming  through  Italy, 
the  Lambs  and  Coleridge  had  both  changed  their 
homes. 

The  Lambs  moved  from  the  Temple  building  to  No. 
20  Little  Russell  Street,  over  a  brazier's  shop — a  strange 
situation  for  two  nervous  people  to  select. 

They  were  temptingly  near  two  theaters,  Drury 
Lane  Theater  being  just  in  front  of  their  house,  and 
Covent  Garden  Theater  directly  in  the  rear.  And  the 
Lambs  were  both  fond  of  attending  the  theater,  although 
this  could  scarcely  have  been  their  reason  for  selecting 
a  home  in  a  neighborhood  so  full  of  noise  and  discom 
fort.  "  I  can  s-s-step  around  the  corner  and  f-f-find 
the  first  vegetables  and  greens  in  market,"  said  Lamb. 


312      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  Cresses  and  beans  with  the  morning  dew  upon  them, 
and  f-f-fruits  in  their  early  bloom.  And  Mary  likes 
nothing  better  than  w-w-watching  the  carriages  and 
c-c-cabs  rushing  by  in  the  evenings,  and  listening  to  the 
halloos  and  wrangles  of  the  link-boys,  as  they  s-s-swing 
their  torches." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  p-p-particularly  enjoy  the 
h-h-hammering  in  the  shop  below  ;  but  they  stop  work 
at  night,  and  M-M-Mary  says  it  is  c-company  for  her 
during  the  day,"  he  said  to  Procter. 

Poor  Mary  liked  almost  anything  that  drew  her 
thoughts  from  herself.  She  dared  not  let  her  mind 
dwell  upon  the  symptoms  that  seemed  forever  threaten 
ing  her  with  those  dreaded  spells  of  insanity.  They 
were  always  returning,  always  creeping  upon  her,  like 
some  hidden  enemy.  Her  attacks  were  more  frequent 
than  formerly,  and  they  made  fearful  gaps  in  the  quiet 
home-life  of  the  devoted  sister  and  brother.  Just 
when  Charles  needed  her  most,  she  was  sure  to  be  over 
taken  by  her  tormentor.  It  was  an  ever-present  terror 
to  the  unfortunate  pair,  and  it  was  wearing  Charles's 
nerves  thread-bare. 

During  all  the  merriment  of  the  noisy  evenings  over 
whist,  Charles  was  always  furtively  watching  his  sister. 
And  whether  he  was  flinging  his  witticisms  among 
the  many  friends  who  loved  to  gather  in  his  cheerful 
rooms,  or  quietly  reading  some  beloved  old  folio  to 
Mary,  he  was  ever  watchful  and  thoughtful  of  her.  No 
lover  could  be  more  tender  or  anxious.  The  bright- 
eyed  little  man  and  his  sweet-faced  sister  became 
known  around  the  flower-market,  and  the  vegetable 
women  and  fish-wives  learned  to  look  for  their  pleasant 


CHANCE  AND  CHANGE.  313 

morning  greeting.  When  he  wandered  there  alone, 
looking  so  pensive,  they  would  ask  after  the  pretty  lady, 
and  win  his  heart  by  their  comments  and  praises  of  his 
sister. 

Often  the  constant  chatter  of  his  many  friends 
wearied  him.  He  was  the  oracle  of  his  friends,  and 
they  sought  him  continually.  But  as  she  grew  more 
popular,  he  complained  that  his  friends  left  him  no 
time  for  quiet  thought.  They  met  him  as  he  strolled 
through  the  Temple  Gardens  and  up  Fleet  Street 
and  Cheapside,  on  his  morning  walk  to  India  House. 
They  joined  him  upon  his  return  in  the  afternoon. 
They  looked  in  during  the  evening  to  consult  him  about 
this  book  and  that  essay  ;  and  they  talked  and  smoked 
and  played  cards  with  him  until  midnight.  This  constant 
excitement  wearied  both  his  and  Mary's  sensitive  nerves 
until  he  decided  upon  some  escape.  Lamb  wrote  to 

Wordsworth,  "  I  am  never  alone I  can  never 

walk  home  from  office,  but  some  officious  friend  offers  his 
unwelcome  courtesies,  to  accompany  me.  All  the  morn 
ing  I  am  pestered.  Evening  company  I  should  like,  had 
I  my  mornings,  but  I  am  saturated  with  human  faces 
(ciivine,  forsooth),  and  miss  all  the  golden  mornings." 

"  I  am  never  Charles  Lamb,  but  C.  L.  &  Co.  He 
who  thought  it  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,  preserve 
me  from  the  more  prodigious  monstrosity  of  never 
being  by  myself."  * 

This  letter  was  partly  the  result  of  a  frustrated  effort 
to  write  out  the  thoughts  that  were  becoming  so  accept 
able  to  the  public,  and  partly  the  whimsical  exaggera 
tion  that  made  his  letters  so  welcome  to  his  friends. 

Lamb  loved  his  friends,  and  was  the  last  man  on 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


314      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

earth  to  show  the  least  impatience  at  their  endless 
claims,  but  he  always  liked  the  relief  of  emptying  his 
moods  into  the  bosom  of  his  letters. 

"  Wh-who  of  us  c-can  endure  to  be  robbed  of  our 
leisure  and  privacy  ?  N-n-nothing  so  upsets  a  writer  as 
interruptions  when  he  f-feels  his  inspiration  upon  him," 
said  Lamb  to  Mary,  after  an  evening's  interruption  by 
guests. 

Most  writers  claim  and  insist  upon  a  certain  amount 
of  seclusion  ;  in  fact,  who  can  think  and  write  without 
it?  It  is  the  besetting  sin  and  daily  temptation  of  peo 
ple  gifted  with  individuality,  to  shrink  into  themselves, 
and  retreat  into  the  sheltered  haven  of  home. 

Tennyson  was  at  last  almost  a  hermit,  and  even  the 
social  Dickens  fled  from  his  friends  and  the  world  when 
he  was  evolving  his  own  world.  Writers  must  live  among 
their  creations.  But  Charles  Lamb's  mornings  were 
filled  with  his  accounts  and  India  House  work,  and  his 
scanty  leisure  from  public  service  was  borrowed  and 
stolen  by  the  endless  demands  of  an  ever-increasing 
circle  of  friends.  It  was  indeed  a  time  to  say  :  "  Good 
Lord  !  deliver  us  from  our  friends  !  "  And  not  one  of 
these  friends  ever  guessed  that  the  gentle  "  Elia  "  was 
chafing  for  quiet  and  freedom.  With  the  courtesy  of 
the  true  gentleman,  he  had  a  smile  and  joke  for  all, 
only  relieving  his  ennui  by  such  an  occasional  letter  as 
the  one  just  quoted. 

He  often  said  :  "  The  neighborhood  of  such  a  man 
as  Coleridge  is  as  exciting  as  the  presence  of  fifty  ordi 
nary  persons,  and  if  I  lived  with  him  or  the  author  of 
'  The  Excursion  '  I  should,  in  a  very  little  time,  lose  my 
own  identity."  '  Yet  he  loved  both  tenderly,  as  few  men 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 


CHANCE  AND  CHANGE.  315 

love  those  of  their  own  sex.  He  gave  the  sympathy 
of  a  woman  to  poor  Godwin  in  all  his  trials  and  tribula 
tions,  and  often  shared  his  slender  purse  with  "  the  phil 
osopher  "  when  creditors  became  too  clamorous. 

He  and  Mary  watched  over  the  impractical  Dyer,  and 
gave  him  many  a  good  dinner  when  the  book-stall 
treasures  had  left  him  no  margin  to  buy  the,  to  him,  un 
important  necessaries  of  life.  They  suffered  with  the 
Hazlitts,  at  the  illness  and  death  of  their  child.  They 
soothed  the  disappointments  of  disgusted  politicians, 
and  shared  the  griefs  of  ill-used  authors.  They  re 
joiced  with  Rickman  over  a  successful  Reform  Bill,  and 
they  shared  Sergeant  Talfourd's  pride  in  a  legal  triumph. 
In  fact,  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  had  the  gift  of  ready 
sympathy  and  thorough  appreciation  for  every  human 
being  that  cared  to  claim  such  munificence.  The  gen 
tle,  soft-eyed  sister  was  as  great  a  favorite  as  Charles 
Lamb.  But  even  this  wealth,  when  poured  out  so  gen 
erously  drains  the  donor's  coffers.  They  both  needed 
a  change  of  scene  to  replenish  the  overtaxed  nerve 
forces.  The  Wordsworths,  the  Hazlitts,  Manning,  all 
their  friends  besought  them  to  pay  them  visits.  But 
this  would  still  require  the  effort  of  social  intercourse, 
from  which  they  both  craved  a  rest.  The  Shelleys' 
descriptions  of  Switzerland  and  the  Rhine  had  made 
Charles  Lamb  feel  that  there  was  grandeur  and  beauty 
in  the  world,  even  beyond  Skiddaw  and  Helvellyn,  and 
the  Westmoreland  lakes. 

Mary  had  lately  recovered  from  a  long  spell  of  her 
malady,  and  the  lime  seemed  favorable  for  a  visit  to 
the  Continent.  The  task-masters  at  India  House  were 
gracious  enough  to  accord  a  holiday,  and  with  great 
glee  they  started  for  Paris.  The  horrors  of  a  packet- 


316       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

boat  upon  the  English  Channel  were  graphically  de 
scribed  by  Lamb,  when  he  could  look  back  upon  its 
misery.  He  and  Mary  were  keenly  alive  to  the  charm 
and  novelty  of  the  old  French  towns  and  cities  along 
the  route  to  Paris.  They  were  charmed  with  the  quaint 
old  streets  of  Amiens,  its  fountains  and  statues,  its  gray 
old  palaces  and  splendid  cathedrals,  and  exquisite 
Gothic  pinnacles  of  St.  Ouen  and  the  fine  bridges  over 
the  meandering  river. 

Charles's  quaint  taste  was  satisfied  by  the  solidity 
and  age  of  the  buildings  in  the  towns  through  which 
their  coach-route  lay.  And  Mary's  with  the  bright- 
eyed  children,  the  babies  in  their  caps,  and  the  profu 
sion  of  flowers  everywhere. 

They  stopped  at  old  St.  Denis,  to  see  the  abbey 
and  its  stately  monuments  and  tombs,  and  walked 
with  keenest  interest  through  the  crypts  and  chapels, 
where  the  insane  mobs  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  had  torn 
open  the  tombs  and  desecrated  the  bodies  of  the  many 
kings  and  bishops  and  royalties  who  had  been,  for 
ages,  buried  here. 

They  followed  the  course  of  those  infuriated  mobs, 
who  had  marched  out  from  Paris  on  their  tour  of  de 
struction  and  vengeance.  But  ere  they  reached  Paris, 
Mary  was  attacked  by  her  old  malady,  and  in  the  stage 
coach  Charles  put  the  strait-jacket  upon  her;  and 
his  first  business  in  Paris  was  to  find  some  asylum  for 
his  raving  and  delirious  sister.  He  placed  her  in  the 
care  of  some  nuns  at  an  insane  asylum.  But  the 
charm  of  his  holiday  had  vanished.  Poor  Mary  was 
among  strangers,  and  he  must  visit  these  longed-for 
scenes  alone.  Paris,  in  that  year  of  1822,  was  not  the 
Paris  of  to-day.  Long,  over-crowded  streets,  packed 


CHANCE  AND  CHANGE.  317 

with  swarming  humanity,  and  darkened  from  the 
height  of  the  great  rambling  tenements  that  almost 
met  across  the  streets,  stretched  and  intertwined  for 
miles  ;  almost  concealing  in  their  close  embrace  the 
palaces  which  rose  in  stately  grandeur  behind  their 
walls,  and  the  noble  churches  encroached  upon  by 
these  close-pressing  streets.  The  Palais  Royal  and 
its  gardens,  the  Tuileries  and  its  beautiful  park,  the 
splendid  Louvre  and  Luxembourg  palaces  were  screened 
by  their  gardens  and  enclosures  behind  the  narrow 
streets.  But  the  wide,  straight  avenues  of  to-day, 
with  their  fair,  roomy  hotels,  stretching  for  miles  in  all 
directions,  are  souvenirs  of  the  Napoleons. 

The  Republic  of  this  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury  must  thank  the  Bonapartes  for  the  stately  avenues 
that  follow  and  cross  the  Seine  in  all  directions,  and  make 
Paris  the  fairest  city  on  earth,  if  not  the  most  interest 
ing.  To  gain  this  beauty  she  has  sacrificed  much  that 
was  interesting  and  historic. 

The  sight-seeing  of  the  next  few  days  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  Bastille  and  the  Reign  of  Terror  scenes ; 
the  noble  fa9ade  of  Notre  Dame,  and  pillared 
Madeleine,  and  the  delicate  gorgeousneSs  of  the  Sainte 
Chapelle,  scarcely  diverted  Lamb's  thoughts  from  his 
trouble. 

The  charm  of  the  new  scenes  and  historic  streets 
and  palaces  had  departed.  Charles  wandered  for 
weeks  around  Paris  and  its  suburbs,  visiting  the  art 
galleries  and  palaces,  with  but  half  a  heart  for  the  in 
teresting  sights.  He  visited  the  salons  of  the  Tuileries 
open  to  strangers,  and  meditated  upon  the  changes 
which  it  had  lately  witnessed.  Here  Napoleon  had 
lived  in  splendor  with  Josephine,  and,  after  the  cruel 


THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

divorce,  he  had  brought  the  young  Austrienne  to  this 
same  palace.  And  now  they  were  all  gone,  and  Louis 
XVIII.  the  Bourbon,  had  returned.  The  mighty  Napo 
leon  Bonaparte  had  risen  to  the  pinnacle  of  his  fortune 
and  success,  and  was  now  dying  at  St.  Helena.  As 
Charles  Lamb  visited  the  splendid  palaces  of  Versailles 
and  Fontainebleau  where  Napoleon  had  lived  in  those 
elegant  apartments,  adorned  and  frescoed  for  the 
magnificent  Louis  XIV.  and  representing  his  grandeur 
and  pride  in  every  hall  and  corridor,  he  could  but 
wonder  afresh  at  Napoleon's  audacity,  and  pity  the 
downfall  of  such  splendid  ambition.  At  Versailles  he 
sought  the  chambers  whence  Marie  Antoinette  had 
fled  from  that  horrible  mob  ;  and  he  marveled  that 
the  gentle  Josephine  could  have  occupied  those  apart 
ments,  so  filled  with  the  very  recent  memories  of  that 
sad  downfall.  And  after  her  came  Marie  Louise  into 
the  same  beautiful  suites  of  rooms,  with  only  the  ex 
quisite  white  silk  draperies  and  hangings  changed 
to  cover  the  traces  of  those  happy  yet  anxious  years, 
ere  Josephine,  too,  had  been  driven  away  from  home, 
husband,  and  throne. 

"  I  am  living  over  the  history  of  this  strange  people 
in  my  glimpses  of  their  palaces  and  art  galleries.  It 
is  appalling  to  think  of  the  great  revolutions  and 
changes  within  the  past  twenty  years — the  overthrow 
of  the  Bourbons ;  the  Reign  of  Terror  ;  the  advent  of 
the  mighty  Napoleon  ;  his  rise  and  setting  like  a  gor 
geous  comet ;  and  now,  his  utter  humiliation  and  the 
return  of  the  Bourbons,  with  the  modification  caused 
by  that  revolution.  These  people  are  so  fiery  and 
volatile,  that  each  new  change  seems  the  supreme  bless 
ing  to  be  desired — until  a  newer  sensation  takes  their 


CHANCE  AND  CHANGE.  319 

fancy.  Then,  phiz  !  bang !  chop  off  their  heads  !  and 
try  another  revolution." 

Thus  wrote  Lamb,  while  taking  his  lonely  views  of 
Paris.  Mary,  who  would  so  have  enjoyed  these  scenes 
and  memories,  was  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  personating  a 
grand  dame — perhaps  one  of  those  very  personages 
whose  history  was  brought  before  them.  The  simple- 
hearted  nuns  in  attendance  could  not  understand  the 
English  jargon  of  the  "  court-lady  "who  made  such  fine 
speeches,  and  gave  such  stately  orders  ;  but  they  did 
understand  the  gentle  kindliness  underlying  the  veneer 
of  her  stately  illusions,  and  the  poor  stranger  was  treated 
kindly,  and  even  made  friends  among  her  attendants. 

After  her  recovery,  they  could  do  but  little  sight 
seeing  together,  and  could  go  no  further,  as  Charles's 
leave-of-absence  was  over. 

"  I  am  always  interfering  with  your  plans,  brother," 
said  Mary  sadly,  the  day  they  left  Paris  for  home. 

"  No,  Bridget !  that  you  are  n-n-not !  I  have  no  p-p- 
plans  apart  from  you,  and  the  b-b-best  thing  in  life  is 
to  see  your  ch-ch-cheering  smile  again.  It  d-d-drives 
out  all  the  cobwebs  that  g-g-gather  in  my  brain." 

As  they  were  journeying  towards  home,  Charles  filled 
in  the  time  and  relieved  the  tedium  of  the  long  stage 
rides,  by  making  the  acquaintance  of  such  of  their 
fellow-travelers  as  seemed  disposed  to  be  sociable. 

One  young  Scotchman  just  returning  from  Germany 
attracted  his  notice  by  his  unusual  attention  to  small 
personal  comforts. 

"  Ah  !  driver  !  have  we  any  hot  breeks?  "  he  asked, 
after  a  change  of  horses  at  an  inn. 

"  Eh,  Monsieur  ?  Breeks  ?  h-h-hot  ?  Qu  'est-ce  que 
t'estl" 


320     THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  Qudque  chose  chaud,  pour  les  pieds"  answered  the 
impatient  Scotchman,  drawing  his  traveling  shawl  close 
round  his  shoulders. 

"  C-c-cold  ? "  asked  Lamb  sympathetically. 

"  Umph  !  "  snarled  the  Scotchman,  giving  his  long 
mane  a  shake. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  1-1-1-like  a  good  d-d-dram  to 
warm  you,"  said  Lamb,  offering  his  pocket-flask. 

"  No,  sir  !  no,  sir  !  Nothing  of  the  kind  !  Rank 
poison,  sir  !  "  said  the  Scotchman. 

But  Lamb  was  not  to  be  bluffed  off  in  this  unfriendly 
manner,  and  after  a  half  hour's  silence,  he  again  ad 
dressed  his  surly  companion. 

"  What  do  you  th-th-think  of  Paris,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  is  as  infernally  dirty  a  hole  as  ever  was  built, 
and  those  confounded  Frenchmen  chatter  like  a  set  of 
monkeys.  I  spent  a  month  there  collecting  material 
for  a  history  of  the  Revolution,  and  that  month  nearly 
killed  me." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  a  writer  ?  "  said  Lamb,  with  an  accent 
of  reverence  in  his  tone.  "  I  do  something  in  that 
1-1-line  myself.  Possibly  you  have  st-st-stumbled  upon 
some  bits  in  the  *  N-N-New  Monthly  '  signed  Elia  ? " 

"Ah!  'Imperfect  Sympathies,'  'Oxford  in  Vaca 
tion  ! '  Indeed  I  have  read  them  with  pleasure  ;  I  am 
pleased  to  meet  a  fellow-worker.  Perhaps  you  have 
read  my  translation  of  '  Wilhelm  Meister  '  ?  " 

"  Aye,  that  I  have,"  said  Lamb,  with  a  sunny  smile, 
"  and  I  am  proud  to  know  Mr.  Thomas  C-C-Carlyle.  It 
is  strange  we  have  not  m-m-met  before.  We  have  so 
many  mutual  friends  in  L-L-London.  I  have  often 
heard  S-S-Samuel  Rogers  and  L-L-Leigh  Hunt  speak 
of  you.  And  that  young  marplot,  Shelley.  You 


CHANCE  AND  CHANGE.  321 

would  not  be  1-1-likely  to  have  heard  them  mention 
Ch-Ch-Charles  Lamb,  we  little  f-f-fish  are  s-swallowed 
up  in  the  great  London  whirlpool." 

"  I  am  so  seldom  in  London  that  I  meet  but  few 
people.  The  atmosphere  and  horrible  din  of  that 
place  tear  my  nerves  to  pieces,"  said  young  Carlyle. 

"  How  d-d-different  we  are  !  London  is  the  finest 
tonic  I  can  take.  I  p-p-pine  for  it,  wherever  I  may  be, 
and  only  breathe  freely  in  its  b-busy  streets." 

"  Then  you  must  have  enjoyed  the  turmoil  of  Paris  ? " 
asked  Carlyle. 

"  N-no.  I  abhorred  it,  even  as  y-you  did.  P-P-Paris 
can  no  more  be  c-c-compared  with  London  than  Old 
Bow  with  S-S-St.  Paul's." 

"  And  neither  can  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath 
with  Edinburgh,  or  even  with  the  fens  and  moors,  for 
a  dwelling  place,"  said  Carlyle,  in  a  tone  which  ad 
mitted  no  contradiction. 

So  Lamb  slid  off  into  more  general  topics,  and  the 
restless  young  Scotchman  drummed  upon  the  window- 
glass  and  shuffled  around  in  his  seat,  and  finally  settled 
down  for  a  nap,  which  was  an  impossibility,  with  the 
stage-coach  plunging  and  tilting  and  rattling  like 
thunder. 

In  after  years,  when  Thomas  Carlyle  had  become 
one  of  the  lions  of  his  day,  and  Charles  Lamb  had  won 
his  place  among  the  first  of  the  British  essayists,  each 
recalled  this  stage-coach  meeting  with  the  other. 

"  The  Scotch  philosopher  reminded  me  of  a  b-b-bear 
with  a  sore  head  and  a  very  alarming  g-g-growl,"  said 
Lamb,  in  describing  that  meeting. 

"  Charles  Lamb  is  a  pitiful  little  fellow,  with  the  sort 
of  a  bleat  you  would  expect  from  the  aimless  wander- 
21 


322       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  ANR  COLERIDGE. 

ings  of  his  sketches.  He  is  always  stammering  into 
a  bog  and  fishing  himself  out,  and  calling  upon  every 
one  to  come  and  see  how  limp  he  is,"  said  Carlyle. 

Before  Carlyle  tore  himself  from  his  adored  Scotland, 
and  settled  in  London,  "  Elia  "  had  ceased  to  find  his 
stage,  his  philosophy,  his  comfort,  and  his  world,  in 
its  busy  streets. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

POSSIBILITIES  AND    IMPOSSIBILITIES. 

But  he  is  weak ;  both  man  and  boy 

Hath  been  an  idler  in  the  land, 
Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 

The  things  which  others  understand. 
Come  hither  in  thy  day  of  strength, 

Come  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave ! 
Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length, 

Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave. 

WORDS  WORTH. — Poets'  Epitaph. 

As  I  have  already  said,  both  Lamb  and  Coleridge 
had  changed  their  homes.  Coleridge  becoming  utterly 
discouraged  at  the  fresh  hold  taken  upon  him  by  opium, 
and  at  the  continued  scorn  of  the  critics,  which  caused 
his  best  efforts  to  fall  dead,  placed  himself  under  the 
care  of  Dr.  Gillman  at  Highgate.  He  confessed  'his 
weakness  to  Dr.  Gillman-,  and  begged  him  to  give  him 
such  care  as  should  help  him  fight  off  his  besetting 
temptation.  Dr.  Gillman,  becoming  greatly  interested  in 
the  gifted  man,  who  seemed  so  in  earnest  in  desiring  to 
reform,  invited  him  to  his  own  home.  There  he  was 
received  as  one  of  the  family,  and  Mrs.  Gillman  be 
came  as  much  attached  to  their  strange  inmate  as  her 
husband.  They  watched  him  incessantly.  They  had 
an  attendant  accompany  or  follow  him  in  his  long 


324     THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

walks  from  Highgate  to  Hampstead  Heath,  to  prevent 
him  from  buying  opium.  They  warned  all  chemists 
and  shop-keepers  not  to  sell  it  to  him. 

Yet,  such  is  the  cunning  that  these  tyrannical  habits 
implant,  he  often  found  opportunities  to  get  the  poison. 
He  wanted  to  be  prevented  from  buying  opium,  yet  he 
was  impelled  by  the  secret  craving  to  elude  every  vig 
ilance  and  procure  it. 

From  months,  his  stay  lingered  on  into  years.  He 
became  known  throughout  the  neighborhood,  and  many 
of  his  and  Lamb's  friends  took  the  London  coaches  and 
visited  Coleridge  at  the  Gillmans'.  Leigh  Hunt,  Tom 
Hood,  De  Quincey,  Edward  Irving,  the  eccentric  young 
divine  who  was  making  such  a  stir  in  London,  all 
sought  him  out,  and  spent  many  pleasant  evenings  with 
him.  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  spent  many  evenings, 
and  an  occasional  Sunday,  at  Dr.  Gillman's.  Here  in 
this  peaceful,  pleasant  home, — a  wide  stone  house  set 
in  a  shady  garden,  amid  fine  old  trees — Samuel  Cole 
ridge  grew  calmer  and  happier  than  he  had  been  for 
many  years.  He  wrote  incessantly,  and  many  excel 
lent  books  resulted  from  these  quiet,  peaceful  years. 
His  "  Aids  to  Reflection,"  written  at  this  time, 
although  ignored,  or  only  sneered  at  by  the  prejudiced 
critics,  became  a  regular  text-book  in  America,  where, 
in  those  days,  Coleridge  found  more  appreciation  than 
at  home.  Long  before  he  found  recognition  as  a  thinker 
and  philosopher  in  England,  America  regarded  him  as 
one  of  the  leading  spirits  of  the  day.  The  "  Biographia 
Literaria  "  and  "  Aids  to  Reflection,"  which  had  no 
chance  whatever  for  sale  at  home,  were  widely  sought 
by  his  brothers  across  the  water.  Longfellow,  Emerson, 
Holmes,  Hawthorne,  and  a  host  of  young  writers  who 


POSSIBILITIES  AND  IMPOSSIBILITIES.      325 

were  just  beginning  to  try  their  powers,  looked  upon 
Coleridge's  poetic  and  prose  writings  as  models  of 
thought,  recognizing  the  divine  genius  of  his  poetry 
and  the  depth  of  his  philosophy. 

A  congenial  coterie  formed  around  him  at  Highgate, 
and  listened  with  delight  to  his  wonderful  flow  of  elo 
quence.  Friends  followed  him  here,  and  settled  around 
him,  and  he  held  a  sort  of  literary  court  to  which  an 
ever-increasing  set  of  satellites  flocked.  A  nephew, 
Henry  Coleridge,  settled  near,  and  spent  his  leisure 
with  this  revered  uncle,  and  his  daughter  Sara  paid  him 
long  visits,  charming  him  with  her  sweetness  and  ready 
appreciation.  A  strong  bond  steadily  increased  be 
tween  father  and  daughter.  Sara  flitted  around  him 
in  this  pleasant  home,  where  he  was  more  like  a  brother 
than  a  mere  boarder.  His  family  and  friends  were  ever 
welcome,  and  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  Cole 
ridge  felt  the  comfort  and  satisfaction  of  having  a  home. 
He  was  tenderly  watched  and  cared  for,  with  no  com 
plaining  or  reproaches  at  his  occasional  relapses  into 
the  trammels  and  subsequent  melancholy  of  his  infirm 
ity.  He  grew  stronger  and  better,  as  the  years  went 
by,  and  a  genial,  benevolent  smile  replaced  the  old 
eager,  restless  look.  Little  children  always  crowded 
around  the  tottering,  silver-haired  man,  who  gathered 
them  to  him  with  winning  smiles  and  fascinating  stories, 
as  he  slowly  paced  the  shady  lanes  and  breezy  uplands 
of  Highgate  and  Hampstead  Heath. 

"They  say  you  are  a  poet,  Mr.  Coleridge,"  said  a 
little  fellow,  slipping  his  hand  into  his  friend's.  "  What 
is  a  poet  ?  " 

Coleridge  looked  at  the  earnest  eyes  and  eager  face, 
and,  shaking  his  head,  said  : 


326       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

"  Ah,  Willie,  a  poet  is  a  queer  fellow  that  tries  to  fly 
instead  of  walking.  He  tries  to  live  with  his  head  in 
the  clouds,  and  only  stumbles  along,  having  a  body  too 
heavy  to  follow  his  thoughts." 

"  Can  you  fly,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  child,  astonished. 

"  I  used  to  try,  my  boy  ;  but  a  hard  set  of  fellows 
always  held  me  back  and  plucked  all  my  growing 
wings;"  and  he  smiled  so  sadly  that  Willie  nestled 
closer,  and  held  tighter  to  the  kind  hand,  and,  with  a 
cloud  in  his  sympathizing  eyes,  asked  :  "  And  did  the 
feathers  never  grow  again,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  Willie,  they  never  grew  again  ;  they  only  turned 
into  quills,  and  I  pluck  them  myself,  and  write  a  lot 
of  things,  very  different,  and  dry,  which  sometimes  turn 
into  silver  and  help  me  to  live." 

"  Father  says  your  talk  is  like  diamonds  and  pearls. 
I  have  often  watched  you,  but  I  never  saw  any  fall." 

Coleridge  laughed  heartily  at  the  boy's  comments, 
and  told  him  a  wonderful  tale  of  the  East :  of  gorgeous 
palaces  and  jeweled  attendants,  and  brilliant  birds  and 
charmed  princesses,  until  the  boy  beamed  with  pleasure, 
and  understood  better  about  the  pearls  and  diamonds. 

Coleridge  earned  enough  in  these  years  to  pay  his 
board  and  send  Derwent  to  college.  Life  seemed 
floating  into  smoother  currents,  and  a  gentle  peace  stole 
into  the  weary  man's  heart.  He  had  drifted  through 
life  almost  penniless,  helped  here  and  there  by  kind 
friends  when  in  danger  of  ruin.  In  his  premature  old 
age  he  was  as  penniless,  but  friends  and  almost  con 
stant  work  still  kept  the  wolf  from  the  door,  and  left 
him  a  trifle  for  the  dear  ones  who  had  enjoyed  so  little 
of  his  fatherhood.  Hartley  and  Derwent  came  to  visit 
him  and  worship  him  as  often  as  possible  ;  but  trav- 


POSSIBILITIES  AND  IMPOSSIBILITIES.      327 

eling  was  expensive,  and  stage-coaching  was  very 
wearying,  and  many  miles  lay  between  them.  So  they 
could  not  very  often  have  the  benefit  of  his  gentle 
admonitions. 

Sara  was  with  him  most  frequently,  and  he  showed 
tenderest  pride  in  the  excellent  work  she  was  doing — 
careful  translations  of  Spanish  and  Italian  works,  full  of 
a  certain  charm  of  style  which  she  had  caught  from  con 
stant  study  with  her  Uncle  Southey.  Her  lovely,  delicate 
face  won  her  friends  and  sympathy  wherever  she  went, 
and  by  her  writings  she  was  earning  a  nice  support  for 
herself  and  a  little  nest-egg  "  for  a  dowry,"  said  her 
careful  mother.  Sara  would  blush  and  smile  at  the 
suggestions  and  hints  of  her  mother  and  aunts,  when 
the  great  Wordsworth  boys  would  tramp  weekly,  and 
oftener,  from  Rydal  to  Keswick.  There  was  always  some 
errand  to  bring  the  two  noisy  young  fellows  to  Greta 
Hall.  And  Sara  Coleridge  and  Edith  Southey  would 
often  walk  miles  over  the  mountain  roads  to  accompany 
"  the  boys  "  part  way  home.  And  the  picnics  and  boat 
ing  and  fishing  excursions  of  the  holidays,  when  the 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  boys  were  home  from  college, 
kept  life  fresh  and  merry  for  this  pleasant  group  of 
young  friends. 

But,  somehow,  the  love-making  was  such  a  cousinly, 
brother-and-sister  affair,  that  the  years  flew  by,  and 
there  was  no  especial  mating  of  the  girls  and  boys  who 
had  become  men  and  women  in  each  other's  society. 

Aunt  Dorothy  Wordsworth  need  not  have  so  feared 
trusting  her  lovely  Dora  with  Hartley  Coleridge. 
Dora  grieved  over  his  shiftless  ways  and  lax  habits 
as  over  an  erring  brother,  and  Hartley  never  knew 
which  of  his  three  sisters  was  the  dearest.  And  the 


328       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Wordsworth  boys  brought  all  their  college  scrapes  and 
love-tales  to  the  sympathetic  trio.  Every  one  knows 
that  this  friendly  state  of  affairs  seldom  wakens  the  ten 
der  passion.  A  little  opposition  and  difficulty  of  access 
are  much  surer  to  kindle  the  flame  of  pursuit  and  waken 
dormant  fancy.  What  we  have  always  had,  and  can 
always  enjoy,  has  no  charm  of  novelty  or  surprise,  which 
seems  an  important  element  in  love-making. 

If  Sara's  heart  quickened  at  the  approach  of  John 
W'ordsworth,  with  his  fine  eyes  and  chestnut  curls,  she 
kept  the  flutter  carefully  concealed.  Her  tender  blue 
eyes  smiled  just  as  gayly  upon  William.  If  half-formed 
dreams  flitted  before  her  fancy,  she  chased  them  back 
with  a  hot  blush,  and  would  not  let  an  arrow  stick  that 
had  not  been  aimed  at  her.  She  was  always  shy  ;  so 
when  she  and  Edith  were  discussing  "  the  boys,"  Edith 
never  guessed  that  John  was  dearer  than  the  rest.  But 
mothers  see  deeper  than  words  ;  they  know  the  flut 
tering  of  pulses,  no  matter  how  carefully  the  young 
hypocrite  may  feign  calmness. 

Sarah  Coleridge  guessed  Sara's  secret,  and  planned 
many  a  trip  for  her  into  new  scenes  where  the  over 
wrought  nerves  could  find  a  new  stimulus  and  again 
grow  quiet.  Hence  the  frequent  visits  of  Sara  to  her 
father,  in  the  Gillmans'  pleasant  home.  Here,  in  the 
society  of  her  father  and  cousin,  Henry  Coleridge,  Sara's 
nerves  quieted,  and  peace  and  happiness  filled  her  heart 
and  life  again. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A  PROPHECY  FULFILLED. 

Oh  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 

Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep  !  — 
Yet,  wherefore  ?     Quench  within  their  burning  bed 

Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep, 

Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 
For  he  is  gone  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 

Descend.     Oh  dream  not  that  the  amorous  deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 

Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our  despair. 

SHELLEY. 

ABOUT  this  time  Leigh  Hunt  had  found  debts  accu 
mulating  around  him,  and,  his  wife's  health  failing,  he 
decided  to  close  their  home  at  Chelsea  and  join  Byron 
and  Shelley  upon  the  Continent.  The  Shelleys  and 
Byron  were  in  Italy.  Byron,  living  a  very  gay  life  near 
Florence  with  the  Guicciolis,  had  his  name  coupled 
with  that  of  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  and  many  rumors 
had  come  back  concerning  his  liaison  with  Claire  Clair- 
mont,  who  had  just  lost  her  little  daughter,  Allegra, 
and  was  as  heart-broken  as  the  Shelleys,  whose  eldest 
son  had  died  near  Florence.  The  Shelleys,  unsettled 
again  by  this  new  sorrow,  had  been  spending  the  sum 
mer  at  San  Arenzo,  near  the  Bay  of  Spezzia.  Byron 
and  the  Shelleys  had  made  all  arrangements  for  Leigh 
Hunt  to  join  them.  Hunt  had  reached  Byron's  home, 


330       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

and  had  written,  asking  Shelley  to  visit  him  at  once. 
He  had  sent  Shelley  a  copy  of  Keats's  new  volume  of 
poems,  "  Lamia,"  which  he  had  just  brought  from 
England. 

Shelley  read  many  of  the  poems  to  his  wife  that 
evening,  and  they  discussed  the  new  poet  with  the  Wil- 
liamses  who  shared  the  villa  of  Casa  Magni  with  them. 
Shelley  and  Captain  Williams  decided  to  take  their 
yacht  and  meet  Leigh  Hunt  the  next  day  at  Pisa. 
There  was  a  heavy  storm  raging  without ;  the  wind  was 
moaning,  and  the  waves  boomed  drearily  against  the 
shore.  The  windows  rattled  and  groaned  against  the 
casements  ;  and  the  olive  trees  and  vines  encircling 
the  house  whispered  and  hissed  in  the  storm,  as  green 
things  do  when  tossed  and  twisted  by  the  wind.  Hot 
gusts  of  wind  broke  through  the  house,  bearing  heavy 
odors  of  orange-flower  and  wisteria,  and  the  thunder 
crashed  and  lightning  glared,  as  the  inmates  tried  to 
read  and  talk.  But  conversation  flagged,  and  the  storm 
held  full  sway.  Mary  Shelley  had  never  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  her  little  one's  death.  She  clung 
nervously  to  Shelley  at  each  crash  of  thunder  and  wail 
of  the  moaning  wind. 

"  Don't  leave  me,  Percy,"  she  cried.  "  Do  not  go  to 
Leghorn  to-morrow  ;  Lord  Byron  will  look  after  Leigh 
Hunt.  Do  not  go  ;  I  am  afraid  to  be  left  alone,  even 
for  a  day.  Something  black  hangs  over  us  ;  I  see  it, 
I  feel  it ;  do  not  leave  me." 

"  You  are  only  nervous,  little  wife,"  said  Shelley 
tenderly.  "  We  will  wait  until  the  storm  is  spent. 
You  will  feel  all  right  to-morrow,  when  the  sun  is  shin 
ing  and  the  waves  are  rippling  like  diamonds.  It 
would  not  do  to  disappoint  Hunt.  You  will  bid  us 


A  PROPHECY  FULFILLED.  331 

God-speed  to-morrow.  Dear  old  Hunt !  he  will  have 
such  budgets  of  news  for  us  from  old  England."  And 
Shelley  sighed,  as  he  always  did  whenever  he  spoke 
or  thought  of  home. 

The  next  morning  was  beautiful  and  clear.  The 
waves  were  dancing  and  curveting,  with  myriads  of 
diamonds  sparkling  on  the  blue  waters.  The  trees 
and  vines  sparkled  and  glistened,  and  the  orange-blos 
soms  filled  the  whole  atmosphere  with  their  rich,  heavy 
fragrance.  Captain  Williams  and  Shelley  laughed  at 
Mary's  foolish  fears,  and  set  off  merrily  in  the  dancing 
yacht — their  pretty  Ariel. 

" '  I'll  bring  you,  my  lassie,  a  bunch  of  blue  ribbons, 
To  tie  up  your  bonny  brown  hair,'" 

sang  Shelley,  as  they  skimmed  and  dipped  over  the 
bounding  blue  sea.  But  Mary  turned  pale  with  unac 
countable  terror,  and  shut  herself  in  her  room  to  ease 
her  foolish  fancies  by  shedding  floods  of  tears.  She 
was  a  fanciful  little  body,  and  her  dreams  and  visions 
always  held  her  in  complete  possession  until  her  sky 
cleared. 

They  met  the  Hunts  and  passed  a  pleasant  day  with 
them  at  Pisa,  and  in  spite  of  a  threatened  storm  Shel 
ley  and  Captain  Williams  sailed  from  Leghorn  the  next 
morning.  Leigh  Hunt  and  Trelawny  urged  them  not 
to  start  in  the  teeth  of  a  storm,  but  they  were  deter 
mined. 

The  squall  broke  with  such  fury,  that  Hunt  and 
Trelawny  watched  the  little  yacht  from  the  light-house 
tower,  until  the  rain  and  clouds  hid  the  fluttering  speck 
from  view. 

Meantime  the  anxious  wives  waited  and  watched  for 


332       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

the  return  of  the  Ariel.  From  Monday  to  Thursday 
they  waited  in  terror  and  suspense  :  Mary  knowing  the 
worst,  by  her  fatal  gift  of  prescience,  that  foresaw  evil 
at  the  very  start  ;  Jane  Williams  hoping  and  praying 
for  their  return.  On  Friday,  when  a  letter  came  for 
Shelley  from  Leigh  Hunt,  expressing  his  fears  for  their 
safety  after  the  squall  of  Monday,  Mary  knew  her 
fears  were  reality,  and  they  started  in  haste  for  Pisa, 
to  inform  Hunt  and  Trelawny  of  their  terrible  fears, 
and  to  hunt  for  some  traces  of  their  lost  husbands. 
Leigh  Hunt's  letter  to  Charles  Lamb  will  tell  the  result 
better  than  words  of  mine. 

"  DEAR  LAMB, — I  hardly  know  how  to  write  of  the  ter 
rible  event  of  which  you  have  doubtless  heard  by  this 
time — the  drowning  of  poor  Shelley.  It  was  so  sudden 
and  terrible  that  I  can  scarcely  write  of  it ;  but  his 
friends  will  want  particulars.  He  and  Captain  Wil 
liams  had  visited  us  at  Pisa,  and  established  us  in 
Byron's  villa  at  Este,  and  started  to  return  in  the  face 
of  a  storm  ;  but  their  light  yacht  must  have  capsized  in 
sight  of  land,  as  the  storm  caught  them  before  they 
had  been  out  a  half-hour.  Finding  they  had  not 
reached  home  by  Friday,  Trelawny  and  I  spent  clays 
searching  the  whole  coast  for  their  bodies,  after  dis 
covering  the  Ariel  drifting,  bottom  up,  upon  the  bay. 
When  found,  poor  Shelley  had  Keats's  '  Lamia  '  open 
in  his  pocket.  Those  poems  had  been  his  last  thought. 
We  could  not  remove  him,  after  all  those  days  in  the 
water  (the  bodies  were  only  recognizable  by  their 
clothes  when  found),  so  we  built  funeral  pyres  and 
burned  the  two  bodies,  which  were  found  miles  apart. 
Byron,  Trelawny  and  I  gathered  fagots  and  bits  of  old 


A  PROPHECY  FULFILLED.  333 

wreckage  from  the  beach  to  build  the  funeral  pyres. 
We  added  cedar  and  olive  wood  to  Shelley's,  and 
tenderly  placing  all  that  remained  of  poor  Shelley 
upon  it,  we  applied  torches  and  waited  until  all  had 
burned  to  ashes.  It  was  the  most  weird  and  horrible 
scene,  with  the  flames  licking  greedily  that  splendid 
ruin  of  a  fallen  temple,  and  the  waves  booming  and 
moaning  under  the  cold,  clear  moon  !  Yet  it  was  a 
fitting  funeral  for  a  poet,  and  for  one  so  unlike  other 
mortals  as  poor  Shelley. 

"  And,  stranger  still,  after  all  else  had  turned  to  *  dust 
and  ashes,'  his  heart  was  left  untouched — that  manly 
heart  that  had  so  loved  and  suffered.  We  placed  it  in 
a  small  casket  for  his  wife.  Of  course  we  hastened  to 
the  lonely  spot  where  the  poor  wives  were  waiting  in 
terror  and  suspense,  fearing,  almost  knowing,  the  worst, 
after  those  dreadful  days  of  watching.  Their  little 
home  is  a  lovely  bower  of  flowers  and  vines  and  fra 
grance,  but  so  isolated  that  we  cannot  leave  these 
grief-stricken  women  alone  here,  and  shall  wait  until 
they  can  pack  and  leave  with  us. 

"  Byron  and  I  are  living  together  at  Este,  and,  for  the 
present,  Mrs.  Shelley  and  her  little  one  will  live  with  us. 

"  Mrs.  Hunt  insists  upon  this,  and  it  seems  the  best 
thing  at  present.  This  calamity  has  left  us  no  thought 
or  recollection  of  our  trip,  or  the  scenes  we  have  en 
joyed.  I  will  write  again. 

"  Yours, 

"  LEIGH  HUNT." 

In  those  days  of  slow  transit,  when  the  mail-coach  was 
the  most  rapid  communication  between  friends  and 
countries,  the  news  of  Shelley's  death  had  not  reached 


334     THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

London  until  Leigh  Hunt's  letter  carried  it.  At  the 
gathering  about  the  "  Round  Table  "  Lamb  read  the 
letter  to  the  friends.  Many  of  them  had  seen  or  known 
the  erratic  young  poet  and  had  commented  upon  his 
foolish,  unworldly  freaks,  and  criticised  or  admired  the 
poems  he  had  published  from  time  to  time. 

Now  the  sentence  of  death  had  been  passed  upon 
him  and  his  mistakes  and  his  efforts.  Charles  Lamb 
had  held  his  poetic  powers  in  high  esteem,  and  even 
Hazlitt  had  found  his  poems  "  bits  of  rainbow  color, 
dainty  and  most  sweet."  Death  came  now  to  silence 
criticism  and  recall  what  was  pleasant  and  winning, 
and  they  mourned  another  young  poet,  so  soon  follow 
ing  poor  Keats. 

"  The  romances  and  changes  one  sees  in  a  lifetime 
are  startling,"  said  Talfourd  ;  "  they  follow  like  the 
transformation  scenes  upon  the  stage.  Look  around 
upon  our  very  friends  and  associates.  Look  at  Byron's 
great  popularity  and  success,  and  see  him  now,  an  out 
cast  and  wanderer.  Look  at  Coleridge's  great  promise 
and  scanty  results,  at  Bonaparte's  rise  and  fall,  and  now 
at  the  sudden  snuffing  out  of  this  undoubted  genius." 

"  Startling  changes  and  unexpected  results  we  must 
and  ever  shall  find  ; ''  said  Hazlitt,  "  but  a  close  ob 
server  can  foretell  much  that  will  happen.  It  is  no 
blind  chance  that  makes  or  mars  men's  lives.  The 
germs  of  all  that  overtakes  them  lie  within  themselves. 
Even  Bonaparte's  downfall  could  be  predicted,  when 
all  Europe  combined  against  him  ;  his  indomitable  will 
challenged  the  world,  and  he  dared  his  own  fate." 

"  C-c-could  you  have  foretold  p-p-poor  Shelley's 
death  ?  "  asked  Lamb. 

"  I  did  prophecy  his  end  many  a  time.     His  blind 


A  PROPHECY  FULFILLED.  335 

recklessness  in  all  things,  and  his  passionate  love  of 
boating  needed  no  seer  to  foretell  his  doom,"  replied 
Hazlitt. 

"  Perchance  you  would  t-t-tell  my  h-h-horoscope, 
since  you  are  so  s-s-sure  of  your  powers  ?  "  said  Lamb. 

Hazlitt's  eagle  eye  rested  searchingly  upon  Lamb's 
"  Titian  head  "  and  diminutive  figure,  and  with  a  smile 
unusual  to  his  severe  face,  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on 
Lamb's  shoulder  : 

"  I  would  I  could  prophesy  for  you  all  the  blessings 
you  deserve,  dear  Charles  Lamb.  I  do  see  brighter 
years  in  store  for  you  than  those  of  the  past." 

"  Ah,  Hazlitt !  you  are  1-like  the  Delphian  Oracles, 
w-w-wise  about  the  past,  and  r-r-rather  general  about 
the  f-f-future.  But,  for  your  good  wishes,  m-m-many 
thanks !  " 

And  the  years  did  flow  more  smoothly  than  of 
old,  to  the  loving  brother  and  sister.  They  lived  on 
quietly  for  six  years,  in  the  house  over  the  brazier's 
shop.  Lamb  wrote,  during  these  years,  many  of  those 
exquisite  bits  of  humor  and  satire  which  have  raised 
him  to  a  level  with  the  best  of  England's  Essayists. 
His  sketches,  those  "  Essays  of  Elia  "  were  sought  by 
the  first  magazines  of  the  day,  and  were  noticed  favor 
ably  by  the  critics,  and  greatly  enjoyed  by  the  public. 

He  was  well  paid  for  his  writings  ;  and  he  stole  many 
an  hour  from  the  tiresome  desk-work  at  India  House, 
to  pen  the  quaint  fancies  that  appeal  so  strongly  to  one's 
humor  and  sympathies.  He  loved  to  fill  up  quiet  even 
ings  at  home  with  his  writing;  but  his  many  friends 
left  him  little  leisure.  He  and  Mary  could  never  settle 
down  for  a  cosy  home-evening  with  books  and  writing, 
but  some  friend  or  friends  would  drop  in  and  stay 


336      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

until  bed-time,  and  headache  from  smoking  and  drink 
ing,  would  prevent  further  work  for  that  night. 

As  Lamb  became  more  popular  and  better  known, 
the  whist-club  grew  to  larger  proportions.  It  became 
a  rival  to  the  brilliant  salons  at  Holland  House  and 
Gore  House  ;  and  many  of  the  habitues  of  these  more 
fashionable  centers  found  the  freedom,  wit,  and  intellect 
at  Charles  Lamb's  "  Round  Table,"  the  most  attractive 
rendezvous.  Here  they  met  writers  and  thinkers.  They 
could  freely  discuss  their  hobbies  and  their  opinions, 
untrammeled  by  party  lines  or  fashion's  decrees. 

Amid  the  pomp  and  pride  at  Holland  House  speech 
was  more  fettered.  Poets  and  writers  met  there  the 
heads  of  the  great  Whig  party,  and  the  rich  patrons  of 
art  and  letters.  Free  speech  was  modified  by  the 
thousand  little  barriers  of  polite  society.  This  lord 
was  too  powerful  to  be  offended,  and  that  lady  had 
great  influence  at  court.  Tom  Moore  understood  all 
the  unwritten  code  of  decorum  and  intolerance,  and 
became  a  great  favorite  in  this  brilliant  circle.  He  was 
intimate  with  Lord  Lansdowne  and  Lord  John  Rus 
sell,  and  was  a  devoted  slave  to  all  the  whims  of  Lady 
Holland.  Walter  Scott  and  Rogers  and  Campbell, 
Landor  and  Procter,  were  equally  welcome  ;  but  the 
barrier  between  this  coterie  and  the  Lamb  party  and 
Lake  Poets  was  never  thrown  down. 

After  Southey  and  Wordsworth  became  stanch 
Tories,  the  breach  was  wider  than  before.  Southey,  as 
Poet  Laureate,  was  often  in  London,  and  frequently  the 
guest  of  Samuel  Rogers,  who  seemed  to  stand  between 
these  different  literary  factions.  But  they  never  en 
tered  the  charmed  circle  at  Holland  House. 

In  these   days  Wordsworth  was  gradually  becoming 


A  PROPHECY  FULFILLED.  337 

recognized  as  a  poet.  His  "  Excursion  "  was  finding  its 
way  into  drawing-rooms,  and  his  name  was  becom 
ing  known.  The  grave,  quiet  man  from  the  hills 
sometimes  met  many  of  the  Holland  House  set  at 
Lamb's  Wednesdays.  He  also  visited  the  stately 
home  of  Rogers,  and  at  his  celebrated  breakfasts 
met  the  poets  and  authors  who  gathered  there. 
During  one  of  these  visits  to  Rogers,  a  "  Drawing- 
room  "  was  held,  and  Rogers  insisted  upon  presenting 
Wordsworth  at  Court.  He  would  take  no  denial.  Even 
the  plea  of  want  of  Court  dress  could  not  release  him 
from  the  importunities  of  his  host,  who  insisted  upon 
lending  Wordsworth  the  requisite  suit.  The  country 
poet  crowded  his  long  limbs  into  Rogers'  velvet  breeches, 
and  squeezed  his  tall  form  into  the  elegant  ruffled  shirt 
and  stylish  coat. 

"  Picture  the  bard  in  poor  little  Rogers'  small 
clothes  !  "  said  Rickman.  "  He  kneeled  so  long  at  the 
Queen's  feet  that  we  thought  him  stricken  with  sudden 
deep  reverence  for  royalty  ;  but  he  confessed  after 
wards  that  he  absolutely  feared  to  move  for  fear  of 
splitting  his  breeches." 

The  vision  of  the  serious  and  spectacled  bard  of  the 
Lakes  doffing  his  long  plaid  cloak  for  Court  dress  and 
small-clothes  was  too  much  for  Charles  Lamb. 

"  Fancy  Wordsworth  masquerading  in  cap  and  bells," 
he  wrote  to  Manning.  "  Can  you  see  him  bowed  in 
reverence  before  royalty,  and  bowed  so  low  that  the 
lion's  skin  was  stretched  too  tight  for  him  to  get  up 
again  ?  I  had  rather  not  think  of  the  great  Words 
worth  bent  so  low.  Yet  we  are  all  actors  in  this  drama 
called  Life,  and  who  knows  at  what  entrance  or  exit  we 
shall  find  ourselves." 

22 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A    WELCOME    CHANGE. 

I  was  fifty  years  of  age,  and  no  prospect  of  emancipation 
presented  itself.  I  had  grown  to  my  desk,  as  it  were,  and  the 
wood  had  entered  into  my  soul. — LAMB. 

For  the  first  day  or  two  I  felt  stunned,  overwhelmed.  I  could 
only  apprehend  my  felicity ;  I  was  too  confused  to  taste  it  sin 
cerely.  I  wandered  about,  thinking  I  was  happy,  and  knowing  that 
I  was  not.  I  was  in  the  condition  of  a  prisoner  of  the  old  Bastile  ; 
suddenly  let  loose  after  a  forty  years'  confinement.  I  could  scarce 
trust  myself  with  myself.  It  was  like  passing  out  of  Time  into 
Eternity,  for  it  is  a  sort  of  eternity  for  a  man  to  have  his  time 
all  to  himself. — CHARLES  LAMB. — Superannuated  Man. 

Six  years  of  uneventful  life  passed  over  the  Lambs 
in  their  Russell  Street  home.  Charles's  writings  for  the 
"  New  Magazine  "  and  other  periodicals  brought  him 
ever-increasing  fame  and  money.  During  these  years 
the  "  Essays  of  Elia  "  were  collected  and  published  in 
book  form,  and  the  modest  India  House  clerk  found 
himself  growing  famous.  With  the  increasing  demand 
for  his  essays  and  character-sketches,  and  the  diminish 
ing  of  his  leisure  time,  as  their  purse  grew  less  scanty, 
Lamb  was  growing  yearly  more  weary  of  the  drudgery 
of  his  desk-work.  He  would  fain  stay  at  home  and 
write  the  thoughts  that  were  crowding  upon  him  for 
utterance.  But  the  tread-mill  never  stopped,  save  on 


A   WELCOME  CHANGE.  339 

the  Bank  holidays  and  upon  the  Jewish  Church  festival 
days  recognized  by  his  task  masters.  A  weariness  of 
work,  of  life,  even  of  friends,  grew  upon  him.  Mary's 
illnesses  continued,  and  left  long  gaps  of  melancholy  in 
their  frequent  wake  ;  and  Coleridge's  life  at  the  Gill- 
mans'  even  shut  apart  their  old  close  intimacy.  They 
longed  for  a  change,  as  sick  spirits  do  long  for  new 
scenes,  and  homesick  souls  for  the  quiet  haven  of 
home. 

Mary  suggested  the  country.  They  often  took  long 
strolls  into  Islington,  and  it  seemed  sweet  and  restful 
to  her  amid  green  fields  and  quiet  country  roads. 
Charles  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  country — at 
the  idea  of  leaving  London.  But  at  least  it  would  be 
nearer  the  hospital  where  he  so  often  had  to  leave  his 
sister. 

They  hunted  up  at  Islington  a  pretty  little  white 
cottage  with  six  rooms,  with  fine  trees  and  a  pretty 
garden,  and  the  New  River  gurgling  past  their  garden 
wall.  They  moved  once  more,  and  Charles  graphically 
described  the  packing  and  flitting  in  one  of  his  letters. 
It  was  a  genuine  move  this  time — from  city  to  country, 
from  the  scenes  of  a  life-time  to  new  environments. 
He  often  walked  to  the  city,  following  the  broad  road 
along  the  little  stream,  past  fields  and  cottages,  until 
the  straggling  buildings  merged  into  the  London 
streets,  and  turned  into  Holborn  and  stretched  out  to 
Cheapside  and  the  India  House. 

He  always  walked  one  way,  and  often  both,  reaching 
Colebrook  cottage  in  better  health  and  spirits  for  the 
long  exercise  after  work.  But  the  country  did  not  ap 
peal  to  Lamb  as  to  most  poets  ;  and  he  wearied  of  his 
Islington  home,  so  far  from  Coleridge  and  from  his  dear 


340       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

shops  and  book-stalls,  and  the  busy  London  crowds 
that  were  such  familiar  studies  to  him.  He  describes 
this  home  to  Bernard  Barton  as,  "  A  white  house  with 
six  good  rooms  ;  the  New  River  (rather  elderly  by  this 
time)  runs  (if  a  moderate  walking-pace  may  be  so 
termed)  close  to  the  foot  of  the  house.  Behind  is  a 
spacious  garden  with  vines  (I  assure  you),  pears,  straw 
berries,  parsnips,  leeks,  carrots,  cabbages  to  delight  the 
heart  of  old  Alcinous.  You  enter  without  passage,  into 
a  cheerful  dining-room,  all  studded  over  and  rough  with 
old  books ;  and  above  is  a  lightsome  drawing-room, 
three  windows,  full  of  choice  prints.  I  feel  like  a  great 
lord,  never  having  had  a  house  before."  * 

Here  Charles  and  Mary  settled  down  to  enjoy  a 
rural  peace  and  quiet ;  for  before  their  door  was  a 
broad  country  road  bordered  with  fine  old  sheltering 
trees.  The  little  garden  was  a  wonder  and  delight  to 
these  cockneys,  who  had  seldom  stepped  beyond  the 
confines  of  London.  Mary  had  her  cosy  tea-table  in 
the  little  garden,  in  the  shelter  of  their  "  own  vine  and 
fig-tree."  Charles  would  read  their  favorite  books, 
while  Mary  served  and  poured  tea.  Here  Leigh  Hunt 
and  Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker  poet,  the  Procters,  and 
Martin  Burney  would  often  join  them,  and  enjoy  the 
quiet  serenity  of  sunset  and  evening.  For,  although 
Lamb  often  growled  about  his  want  of  leisure,  no  one 
ever  welcomed  friends  more  cordially. 

Charles  wrote  to  Mrs.  Hazlitt  an  amusing  account 
of  George  Dyer's  visit :  "  Yesterday  week,  George 
Dyer  called  upon  us,  at  one  o'clock  (bright  noonday), 
on  his  way  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Barbauld  at  Newington. 
He  sat  with  Mary  about  half  an  hour,  and  took  leave. 
*"  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.'' — AINGER. 


A   WELCOME  CHANGE.  541 

The  maid  saw  him  go  out,  from  her  kitchen  window, 
but,  suddenly  losing  sight  of  him,  ran  up  in  a  fright  to 
Mary.  G.  D.,  instead  of  keeping  the  slip  that  leads 
to  the  gate,  had  deliberately,  staff  in  hand,  in  broad, 
open  day,  marched  into  the  New  River.  He  had  not 
his  spectacles  on,  and  you  know  his  absence.  Who 
helped  him  out,  they  can  hardly  tell ;  but  between 
'em  they  got  him  out,  drenched  thro'  and  thro'.  A 
mob  collected  by  that  time,  and  accompanied  him 

in The  patient  was  put  between  blankets  ;  and 

when  I  came  home  at  four  to  dinner,  I  found  G.  D.  a-bed, 
and  raving,  light-headed,  with  the  brandy  and  water 
which  the  doctor  had  administered.  He  sang,  laughed, 
whimpered,  screamed,  babbled  of  guardian  angels, 
would  get  up  and  go  home ;  but  we  kept  him 
there  by  force ;  and  by  next  morning  he  departed 
sober."  * 

Charles  enjoyed  this  episode  hugely,  picturing  most 
graphically  the  drenched  and  maudlin  philosopher  to 
their  friends,  and,  ever  after,  teasing  him  about  it. 

"  T-t-to  think  that  at  last  these  n-n-nankeen  trousers 
should  have  f-f-found  their  way  to  water,"  he  said.  "  I 
always  t-t-told  you  you  reminded  me  of  a  c-c-crab,  old 
fellow.  It  was  instinct,  p-p-pure  instinct,  that  1-1-led 
you  h-home." 

Not  only  did  friends  seek  Lamb  at  Colebrook  cot 
tage  ;  but  he  was  invited  to  the  Mansion  House,  to  a 
dinner  given  to  authors.  "  The  dinner  was  costly  and 
served  on  massive  plate  ;  champagne,  wines,  etc.,  forty- 
seven  present,  among  whom  the  chairman  and  two  other 
directors  of  the  India  Company.  Here's  for  you  !  and 
I  got  away  pretty  sober.  Quite  saved  my  credit,"  *  he 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb/'  AINGER. 


342      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

wrote.  Of  course  this  public  notice  was  immensely 
gratifying  to  Charles  and  Mary.  "  The  Essays  of  Elia  " 
were  most  favorably  noticed  by  the  reviews  and  papers. 
Little  by  little  the  India  House  clerk  was  growing  in 
popularity.  And  now  to  dine  with  other  notables,  and 
even  with  the  august  India  House  directors, was  a  great 
event.  Mary  swelled  with  pride,  but  apart  from  a  little 
joking,  Charles  bore  his  new  honors  as  meekly  as  he 
had  always  borne  his  troubles. 

He  regarded  a  dinner  with  the  Lake  poets  as  a  far 
greater  honor  and  pleasure.  He  wrote  to  Barton : 
"  I  dined  in  Parnassus,  with  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Rogers,  and  Tom  Moore — half  the  poetry  of  England, 
constellated  and  clustered  in  Gloucester  Place.  It  was 
a  delightful  evening.  Coleridge  was  in  his  finest  vein 
of  talk — had  all  the  talk  ;  and  let  'em  talk  as  evilly  as 
they  do  of  the  envy  of  poets,  I  am  sure  not  one  there 
but  was  content  to  be  nothing  but  a  listener.  The 
Muses  were  dumb,  while  Apollo  lectured  on  his  and 
their  fine  art."  * 

This  was  one  of  the  occasions  when  Coleridge  shone 
with  his  old  splendor,  and  Lamb  basked  in  his  efful 
gence.  Coleridge,  with  his  son  and  daughter,  visiting 
him  at  Highgate,  and  himself  the  center  of  the  ever- 
widening  circle  of  brilliant  men  who  came  to  Highgate 
to  visit  him,  was  better  and  happier  than  he  had  been 
for  years.  He  was  proud  of  his  children  :  both  Hartley 
and  Sara  wrote  good  poetry  and  were  brilliant.  The 
careful  nursing  and  watching  of  Dr.  Gillman  and  his 
wife  had  helped  him  gradually  to  throw  off  the  fetters 
of  opium.  And,  although  the  critics  gave  him  no  place 
in  the  world  as  a  writer,  still  he  wrote  and  worked 
*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


A   WELCOME  CHANGE.  343 

regularly  for  duty's  sake,  and  to  pay  his  board.  And 
it  was  a  pleasure  and  benefit  to  him. 

His  treatment  by  the  papers  and  magazines,  while 
it  cut  him  to  the  quick,  was  greatly  compensated  by 
the  sympathy  of  friends. 

Even  the  celebrated  Edward  Irving,  the  great  Scotch 
divine  who  was  making  such  a  stir  in  London,  came  to 
Coleridge,  as  to  a  master,  for  advice  and  instruction. 
He  confessed  many  of  his  difficulties  to  the  "  silver- 
tongued  orator,"  and  found  Coleridge's  experience  of 
the  comforts  of  Christianity,  after  his  wide  wanderings 
into  mysticism  and  philosophy,  a  wholesome  and  bless 
ed  lesson. 

Coleridge,  whilst  appreciating  Irving's  brilliancy  and 
earnestness,  frequently  warned  him  against  the  dangers 
of  his  emotional  nature  and  ascetic  tendencies.  The 
philosopher  of  Highgate  and  the  humorist — the  anti 
quarian  and  seer  of  Colebrook  cottage  met  sometimes 
in  London,  and  sometimes  at  the  Gillmans',  and  there 
was  ever  the  same  tender  interest  when  they  met,  and 
the  same  regrets  that  their  paths  now  lay  so  far  apart. 
Each  was  rapidly  ageing  and  needing  more  the  rest 
and  retirement  of  home.  Coleridge,  at  sixty  years, 
was  now  an  old  man  in  appearance  and  feelings; 
and  Charles  Lamb  was  also  greatly  aged,  from  the 
constant,  wearing  desk-work,  and  the  more  nervous 
strain  of  his  anxiety  about  Mary.  He  fretted  like  a 
nervous  woman  over  every  symptom  which  threatened 
a  spell  of  insanity.  He  was  always  watching  for  them 
and  dreading  them.  And  by  his  very  fears  he  often 
worried  her  into  an  attack  that  might  have  been  warded 
off  had  she  been  in  a  less  exciting  environment. 
Mary's  own  melancholy  before  and  after  her  illnesses, 


344       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

was  most  terrible  to  them  both.  It  is  small  wonder 
that  they  tried  different  resorts  in  the  few  vacations 
Charles  could  beg;  and  imagined  that  a  change  of 
home  and  location  could  lift  their  cloud. 

The  ceaseless  desk-work  in  the  gloomy  den,  by 
candle-light,  so  wore  upon  Lamb  that  he  determined  to 
send  in  his  resignation  to  the  India  House  directors, 
hoping  that  after  his  thirty-three  years  of  faithful  ser 
vice  he  might  receive  a  small  pension.  He  heard 
nothing  from  them,  as  the  weeks  went  by,  and  feared 
a  mere  acceptance  of  his  resignation,  without  the  ac 
companying  enrollment  upon  their  pension  list.  He 
dared  not  tell  Mary  what  he  had  done,  fearing  to  excite 
her  ;  but  his  over- wrought  nerves  were  almost  as  bad  for 
Mary's  peace  of  mind  as  a  share  of  his  uncertainty 
would  have  been. 

After  nearly  two  months,  he  came  hurrying  in 
one  mid-day,  with  a  face  so  beaming  with  joy  that 
his  appearance  at  that  unusual  hour  failed  to  startle 
her. 

"  Guess,  Polly,  what  g-g-good  news  I  have  b-brought 
thee,"  he  shouted.  "  P-p-put  on  thy  thinking-cap  and 
w-w-wish  for  the  best !  " 

"Is  anybody  married  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  N-n-no,  Polly,  but  somebody's  divorced,  with  ali 
mony,  from  the  most  tiresome  mistress  on  earth.  I've 
quit  India  House,  with  a  pension  of  ^441  a  year  for 
life,  and  the  half  of  it  for  you  if  I  d-d-die  first !  " 

"  Charles  !  "  said  Mary,  with  a  flush  of  pleasure 
lighting  her  pale  cheek,  "  I  cannot  believe  it !  " 

"  Nor  I,  Polly.  I've  hoped  for  it  these  two  months, 
and  now  that  it  has  c-come,  I  don't  know  how  to  b-b- 
bcar  it.  All  holiday  you  know — time  to  r-r-read,  t-time 


A   WELCOME  CHANGE.  345 

to  write,  t-t-time  to  th-th-think !  and  money  enough  to 
1-1-live  on  !  What  nabobs  we'll  be  !  " 

But  with  the  contrariness  of  human  nature,  no 
sooner  had  this  hoped-for  release  come  than  he  was 
like  a  child  with  too  much  cake. 

When  morning  came,  there  was  no  duty  awaiting  him. 
The  habit  of  years  was  suddenly  snapped,  and  the 
relief  caused  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  He  commenced 
to  look  back  tenderly  upon  the  old  busy  days  that  had 
the  coveted  evening  at  their  close,  and  upon  the  eagerly 
counted  and  expected  holidays.  He  wrote  to  Words 
worth  :  "  Holydays,  even  the  annual  month,  were 
always  uneasy  joys ;  their  conscious  fugitivenass,  the 
craving  after  making  the  most  of  them.  Now,  when  all 
is  holyday,  there  are  no  holydays.  I  can  sit  at  home, 
in  rain  or  shine,  without  a  restless  impulse  for  walk 
ings.  I  am  daily  steadying,  and  shall  soon  find  it  as 
natural  to  me  to  be  my  own  master  as  it  has  been 
irksome  to  have  had  a  master.  .  .  .  Leigh  Hunt  and  Mont 
gomery,  after  their  releasements  (from  prison),  describe 
the  shock  of  their  emancipation  much  as  I  feel  mine.  .  .  . 

"Tuthill  and  Gillman  gave  me  my  certificates.  I 
laughed  at  the  friendly  lie  implied  in  them  ,  but  my 
sister  shook  her  head  and  said  it  was  all  true.  Indeed, 
this  last  winter  I  was  jaded  out.  Winters  were  always 
worse  than  other  parts  of  the  year,  because  the  spirits 
are  worse,  and  I  had  no  daylight.  In  summer,  I  had 
daylight  evenings.  The  relief  was  hinted  to  me  by  a 
Superior  Power,  when  I,  poor  slave,  had  not  a  hope  but 
that  I  must  wait  another  seven  years  with  Jacob  :  and 
lo !  the  Rachel  which  I  coveted  is  brought  to  me  !  "  * 

The  Lambs  had  invited  a  little  daughter  of  Mr.  Isola, 
*"  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 


346       THE  DA  YS  OP  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

a  teacher  of  French  ar.d  Italian  at  Cambridge,  to  visit 
them,  and  the  visitor  had  staid  with  them  until  such 
an  attachment  grew  that  they  decided  they  could  not 
part  with  her.  So  the  "  pretty,  nut-brown  maid  "  be 
came  one  of  the  family — the  adopted  daughter  of  this 
bachelor  and  spinster,  who  were  too  full  of  the  milk  of 
human  kindness  to  be  forever  childless.  She  accom 
panied  them  upon  their  long  walks,  and  her  young  life 
added  a  zest  to  their  quiet  home. 

Charles  found  an  interesting  occupation  in  teaching 
her  Latin,  and  Mary  helped  her  keep  up  her  French,  and 
both  gave  her  of  their  best  stores  of  knowledge,  to  fit 
her  for  the  position  of  governess,  as  she  grew  older. 
She  was  a  charming  girl,  and  their  kindness  to  her  was 
well  repaid  by  her  tender  affection  for  her  foster- 
parents.  Emma  Isola  took  a  daughter's  place  in  the 
household  duties,  and  lightened  the  home  cares  by  her 
youthful  spirits  and  interests. 

As  Charles  grew  accustomed  to  his  liberty,  he  en 
joyed  visiting  and  receiving  his  friends  more  than  for 
years  past.  He  and  Mary  made  frequent  trips  to 
Highgate,  and  enjoyed  the  charms  of  Coleridge's  society 
more  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

EVENING     SHADOWS. 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won, 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

WORDSWORTH. — Ode  to  Immortality. 

COLERIDGE  had  just  written  the  most  earnest  and 
conscientious  work  of  his  life,  his  "  Aids  to  Reflection." 
His  improved  health  and  spirits  had  enabled  him  to 
give  more  careful  thought  and  work  to  this  effort  than 
was  usual  with  him.  Readers  and  thinkers  eagerly 
sought  the  book,  and  prized  its  wholesome  lessons.  It 
is  the  epitome  of  a  philosopher's  theories  and  experi 
ences.  He  wrote  from  his  heart,  in  the  sincere  hope 
of  helping  men  struggling  to  the  Light  and  Truth,  as  he 
had  done.  The  whole  summing  up  of  his  experience 
and  philosophy  was,  that  Christianity  is  to  be  found  in 
Christian  living  rather  than  in  beliefs  or  doctrines  ;  prac 
tical  Christianity  being  of  so  much  higher  importance 
than  this  or  that  formula.  Faith  in  the  Bible,  in  all  its 
teachings  and  miracles,  being  wiser  than  all  the  wisdom 
of  all  the  schools. 


348       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Thus,  in  his  weakness  and  age,  Coleridge  reached 
out  a  helping  hand  to  humanity.  He  had  solved  the 
riddle  "What  is  Truth  ?"  for  himself,  that  riddle  that 
had  so  puzzled  his  youth,  and  upset  his  manhood. 
And  the  other  question,  the  "  Why,  why  ?  "  that  had  also 
so  disturbed  all  his  early  life,  was  answered  by  the 
sweet  childlike  faith  and  trust  that  sheltered  his  age. 
He  had  learned  that,  "  when  I  am  weak,  then  am  I 
strong,"  and  after  all  the  discords  and  the  unrest  of 
the  weary  seeking,  had  come  this  blessed  finding  of  the 
Heavenly  Father's  infinite  love  and  pity.  He  had  at 
last  learned  peace,  the  "  peace  that  passeth  all  under 
standing."  It  shone  from  the  kind,  gray  eyes  ;  it 
brooded  over  the  venerable  silvery  head,  and  with  its 
own  wondrous  luminousness,  it  shed  its  light  upon 
others.  Coleridge,  the  chastened,  childlike  Christian, 
was  happier,  better,  greater,  than  Coleridge  the  poet, 
or  Coleridge  the  philosopher.  And,  because  of  his  hu 
mility,  because  he  now  only  wished  to  help  and  not 
to  teach,  his  influence  was  far  greater  than  in  his  days 
of  pride — the  greater  for  the  years  of  deep  humiliation 
he  had  undergone.  Men  of  all  denominations  felt  the 
power  of  his  earnestness,  and  came  to  learn  of  him. 

It  was  a  time  when  the  question  "  What  is  Truth  ?  " 
was  stirring  the  colleges  and  the  churches.  The  Ox 
ford  movement  was  growing ;  and  the  spirit  was  driv 
ing  formalism  and  perfunctory  ceremonials  out  from 
the  temple.  The  young  Newman  was  striving  against 
the  bonds  of  dogma,  and  preaching  new  doctrines  at  old 
St.  Mary's,  within  the  very  walls  of  Oxford.  He  sought 
out  Coleridge,  and  had  long,  earnest  talks  with  him, 
whilst  trying  to  adjust  duty  and  conscience.  He  found 
the  "  Aids  to  Reflection  "  a  great  help,  as  did  Julius 


EVENING  SHADOWS.  349 

Hare  and  Edward  Irving,  and  all  that  set  of  thinkers 
who  were  trying  to  follow  the  leading  of  God's  Spirit, 
and  to  discern  between  duty,  conscience,  faith  and 
feeling. 

Carlyle,  he  whose  leaven  was  of  another  yeast,  also 
sought  Coleridge  and  tried  to  sound  his  depth.  But 
Coleridge's  world  was  of  another  order,  and  these  two 
great  thinkers  were  on  planes  too  different  to  furnish 
common  meeting  ground.  Each  despised  the  conven 
tional  and  false ;  each  loved  to  hear  his  own  flood  of 
eloquence,  and  each  sought  Truth  above  all  else  on 
earth. 

But  Coleridge's  law  was  tolerance  and  love,  and 
Carlyle's  law  intolerance  and  scorn.  The  fiery  young 
Scotchman  found  little  in  the  broken  veteran  beyond 
a  certain  musical  eloquence  spoiled  by  the  nasal,  stum 
bling  utterance  of  his  physical  infirmities. 

Charles  Lamb  marveled  at  the  calm  and  peace  that 
had  descended  upon  his  best-loved  friend.  His  own 
sweet,  trustful  nature  had  worn  somewhat  fretful 
through  these  long  years  of  strain  and  anxiety.  And 
now  he  found  the  restless  Coleridge  grown  calm  and 
almost  happy ;  and  he  wondered,  while  he  rejoiced. 

In  these  days  of  leisure,  the  friends  were  often  to 
gether,  yet  less  often  than  they  wished,  because  of 
Mary's  many  illnesses  and  long  interruptions,  which,  for 
the  time  being,  shriveled  Charles's  heart  into  a  suffer 
ing  void — paralyzed  with  misery,  and  dead  to  friend 
ship.  His  letters  of  this  period  were  either  invitations 
to  old  friends  to  dine  or  sup  with  them,  or  warnings 
of  a  dismantled  household,  and  its  suffering  need  of 
absolute  repose. 

During  these  years,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  Lamb 


350       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

haunted  the  British  Museum,  studying  his  favorite  old 
dramatists  and  the  musty  treasures  of  the  library  and 
records.  Almost  any  day,  in  the  least  gloomy  corner 
of  the  great  library,  could  be  seen  the  attenuated  figure 
with  the  fine  silvered  head  and  sparkling  brown  eyes, 
bent  over  piles  of  folios,  browsing  here  and  there  among 
them.  He  always  loved  to  dip  and  skim  through  his 
favorite  authors,  like  a  bird  in  an  orchard.  His  own 
writings  give  one  pleasure  in  the  same  way — a  delicious 
bit  here,  a  fine  thought  there,  a  quaint  picture  or  hu 
morous  touch,  to  whet  the  fancy  for  new  discoveries. 

At  the  library,  and  amid  the  collection  of  engravings 
and  curios  of  the  Museum,  where  his  fine  taste  and 
excellent  judgment  made  him  quite  an  oracle,  he 
widened  his  circle  of  friends. 

Men  of  similar  tastes  in  letters  and  art  flocked  around 
Lamb  wherever  he  was.  At  the  Royal  Academy  he 
was  in  his  own  element.  Who  so  well  understood  the 
Hogarths,  the  Turners,  the  Reynolds,  the  Titians  of 
the  art  gallery  as  the  quaint  little  fellow  who  spent 
hours  studying,  criticising,  weighing,  and  comparing 
them  ?  He  knew  every  turn  and  line  of  the  Hogarths 
— every  point  and  insinuation  of  their  satire  was  deli 
cious  to  this  artist  of  the  quill,  and  he  had  as  true  an 
instinct  for  color  as  for  form.  Hayden,  Hazlitt,  and 
other  artists  prized  his  criticisms  beyond  that  of  pro 
fessionals.  He  had  spent  weeks  of  his  scanty  leisure 
decorating  his  garret  in  the  Temple  with  the  prints  and 
engravings  of  his  favorite  Hogarth.  And  he  knew 
each  one  as  intimately  as  a  good  Christian  does  his 
Bible.  He  had  always  visited  all  the  picture  sales  and 
the  galleries  within  reach,  and  now  no  collection  escaped 
his  attention. 


EVENING  SHADOWS.  351 

He  was  sent  for  as  a  connoisseur,  to  verify  the 
genuineness  of  certain  disputed  "  old  masters,"  and  he 
became  familiar  with  the  gems  in  the  many  fine  private 
galleries  of  London.  At  Bridgewater  House  and  Dud 
ley  House,  and  in  many  of  the  superb  private  galleries, 
Charles  Lamb  knew  the  Titians,  and  Da  Vincis,  and 
Guido  Renis,  Murillos,  and  Poussins  better  than  did  their 
owners.  "  What  need  to  have  the  c-c-care  of  t-t-treas- 
ures,  when  you  can  have  your  f-f-fill  of  them  at  other 
men's  expense  ? "  asked  this  fastidious  connoisseur 
who  did  not  own  a"  painting.  But  with  books  it  was 
different.  He  never  could  pass  the  fascinating  old 
bookstalls  and  junk-shops,  where  musty  treasures,  as 
mellow  and  odorous  as  old  cheese,  could  be  picked  up 
for  a  few  pence,  without  stopping  to  buy.  It  was  his 
hobby ;  he  knew  all  these  disreputable  old  corners  in 
London,  and  indulgence  in  this  very  inexpensive  taste 
was  his  one  extravagance.  The  great  old  book-case, 
that  had  followed  them  from  one  home  to  another,  was 
crammed  with  these  rare  skimmings,  and  overflowed 
into  shelves  and  corners,  in  a  way  that  would  have  dis 
tracted  any  other  housekeeper  than  Mary.  But  as  she 
shared  all  her  brother's  tastes  and  indulged  all  his 
whims,  she  adored  these  same  old  folios,  as  contributing 
to  his  happiness  and  welfare.  She  did  try  to  keep 
them  from  the  chair-seats  and  mantel-shelves,  but  if 
"brother"  had  required  them  to  adorn  the  center  of 
the  breakfast-table,  it  would  have  been  all  right.  She 
had  the  same  tender  way  of  looking  after  the  comfort  of 
their  intimate  friends.  She  mothered  Coleridge  and 
George  Dyer,  and  all  the  impractical  dreamers  that  had 
no  other  woman  to  mend  their  linen  and  collect  their 
scattered  belongings. 


352       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Years  ago,  she  and  Sarah  Hazlitt  had  undertaken 
to  tidy  up  poor  George  Dyer's  untidy  den.  They  had 
mended  and  hung  up  the  innumerable  articles  of  wear 
ing  apparel  that  were  piled  up  around  the  floor.  They 
had  cleared  a  path  among  the  books  that  lay  scattered 
in  all  directions,  and  had  piled  in  a  corner  those  kept 
in  the  seat  of  the  only  easy-chair  in  the  room.  They 
brought  order  from  the  chaos,  and  beamed  upon  their 
afternoon's  work.  But  George's  look  of  consternation, 
and  his  blank  expression  when  he  found  the  havoc 
they  had  wrought  in  his  familiar  surroundings,  kept 
them  from  ever  again  trying  to  reduce  him  to  order. 
Now,  there  was  no  need  of  such  tidying  up  by  pitying 
friends,  for  George  Dyer  had  blundered  into  matri 
mony.  He,  the  eccentric,  the  book-worm,  had  some 
how  found  himself  blessed  with  a  caretaker  ;  and  history 
will  not  lift  the  veil  that  mercifully  covers  the  adjust 
ment  of  such  life-long  vagaries  to  the  more  wholesome 
jog-trot  of  married  life. 


CHAPTER  XLIIT. 

FLOTSAM    AND    JETSAM. 

Art  thou  a  statesman  in  the  van 

Of  public  business  trained  and  bred  ? 

First  learn  to  love  one  living  man 
Then  mayst  thou  think  upon  the  dead. 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more, 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 

Is  gone.  Our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion,  breathing  household  laws. 

WORDSWORTH. 

WHILST  our  friends,  Lamb  and  Coleridge,  had  been 
steadily  drifting  down  the  tide,  towards  the  great  sea 
that  swallows  all,  the  world,  too,  had  been  drifting  on. 
The  poor  old  king,  George  the  Third,  had  been 
"gathered  to  his  fathers,"  and  the  Regent  had  become 
George  the  Fourth,  with  little  change  in  ministry  or 
events,  as  he  had  for  a  dozen  years  held  the  reins. 
Strange  compound  as  he  was  of  dandy  and  brute,  he  had 
always  taken  some  interest  in  the  literary  development 
of  his  country.  He  prided  himself  upon  his  literary 
tastes,  and  gave  pensions  and  aid  to  a  number  of  writers, 
among  them,  in  an  indirect  way,  to  Coleridge.  He  had 
established  a  Royal  Literary  Society  for  the  advance 
ment  of  belles  lettres  and  general  literature,  and  this 

23 


354      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Coleridge  had  joined,  and  besides  the  F.  R.  S.  attached 
to  his  name  as  mark  of  especial  honor  in  the  world  of 
letters,  he  was  invited  to  deliver  the  annual  lecture,  and 
receive  one  hundred  guineas  for  his  services. 

This  addition  to  his  earnings  assisted  Coleridge 
in  sending  Derwent  to  college,  and  helped  him  to  feel 
less  cramped  for  money  than  in  his  earlier  life. 

Sydney  Smith's  long  cherished  scheme  of  Catholic 
Emancipation,  in  spite  of  all  obstacles,  was  growing  in 
favor.  The  Liberals  had  gained  ground,  and  the  "  No 
Popery "  cry  was  dying  out,  after  long  struggles,  fre 
quent  riots,  and  troubles.  The  great  clerical  wag  who 
had  steadily  fought  for  the  removal  of  Catholic  disabil 
ities  had  bravely  stood  in  the  way  of  his  own  promotion 
to  preferment;  but  his  wit  and  wisdom  steadily  bore 
down  barriers  and  helped  redress  the  wrong.  Public 
meetings  all  over  the  country  endorsed  the  reform. 
In  one  of  Sydney  Smith's  speeches  upon  the  subject, 
his  description  of  the  old  woman  sweeping,  sweeping 
back  the  tide  that  swelled  to  her  door,  to  her  house, 
and  her  fruitless  effort  to  keep  back  the  sea  with  her 
vigorous  broom,  carried  all  before  him.  Such  a 
powerful  and  picturesque  argument  helped  the  cause 
more  than  all  the  pleading  and  logic  of  Daniel  O'Con- 
nell.  Even  Mr.  Peel,  one  of  its  strongest  enemies,  be 
came  an  advocate  for  the  "  Catholic  Emancipation  Bill," 
and  as  the  years  sped  on  the  chances  of  its  success 
increased  yearly. 

During  the  canvass  for  the  "  Catholic  Bill,"  in  1824, 
came  tidings  of  Lord  Byron's  death  at  Missolonghi, 
Greece.  The  shock  of  Shelley's  tragic  death  had 
made  Byron  more  cynical  and  morose  than  ever ; 
and  after  a  quarrel  with  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  and  a 


FL O  TSAM  AND  JE TSAM.  355 

severance  of  that  liaison,  his  restlessness  led  him  to  fling 
himself  into  the  Grecian  struggle  for  liberty.  Outcast 
as  he  was  from  home  and  country,  his  resentment 
against  social,  religious,  and  political  tyranny  grew  into 
a  passion.  He  offered  his  money  and  personal  services 
to  the  people  of  Greece  who  were  rising  against  their 
oppressors.  He  had  become  utterly  reckless,  and, 
longing  for  death,  feverishly  hoped  to  find  his  de 
liverer  upon  the  field  of  battle  and  of  glory.  His  wel 
come  visitor  came,  not  upon  the  battle-field,  however, 
but  from  cold  and  exposure  and  malarial  poison  ;  and 
the  troubled  spirit  was  at  rest — at  least  in  this  world. 
His  last  wishes  were  disregarded,  his  last  command 
disobeyed.  He  forbade  them  ever  to  send  his  body  to 
England.  He  wished  to  lie  where  he  fell,  that  the 
country  which  had  expelled  him  from  its  pity  and 
society  during  life,  should  never  again  hold  his  body. 
Even  this  last  request  was  denied  the  brilliant  poet 
who  had  lived  through  all  life's  phases,  and  burned  out 
its  fires  at  the  age  of  thirty-six.  His  body  was  sent 
to  England,  and  was  met  by  a  handful  of  friends  who 
followed  him  to  the  grave.  On  a  gray,  rainy  day,  the 
few  coaches,  in  which  were  Samuel  Rogers,  snarling  at 
a  long  ride  in  such  weather,  Leigh  Hunt,  Tom  Moore, 
and  a  dozen  others,  wound  slowly  to  the  vault  near 
Newstead  Abbey.  There  was  laid  the  wanderer  who 
had  shot  like  a  meteor  across  England's  cold  skies. 

Another  poet  was  fallen,  but  the  world  wagged  on. 
Kings  and  poets,  lords  and  commoners  but  drift  to  the 
same  ocean,  and  its  waves  close  over  them,  and  rise 
and  fall  as  musically,  waiting  for  the  next  victims.  To 
some,  who  are  weary  of  the  drifting,  and  are  listening 
for  the  boom  of  the  waves  on  the  shore,  the  voyage 


356      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

seems  endless.  But  to  many  who  are  bravely,  eagerly 
steering  against  the  tide,  it  seems  to  sweep  them  on 
all  too  soon  for  their  ambitions  and  their  pleasures. 

But  whether  we  wait  wearily  for  our  summons  to 
cross  the  dread  Styx,  or  shrink  from  the  inevitable 
doom  awaiting  us,  it  comes  to  all — this  summons  to 
lay  down  life's  burdens  and  struggles. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

BLIND     MAN'S     HOLIDAY. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces ! 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me  :  all  are  departed; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

CHARLES  LAMB  found  his  long  holiday  dragging  on 
rather  wearily.  Heavy  colds  and  nervous  affections 
frequently  unfitted  him  for  writing,  and  Mary's  more 
frequent  absences  from  home  left  him  unsettled  and 
uneasy. 

Emma  Isola  had  taken  the  governess's  position  and 
was  away  in  Hertfordshire,  and  the  cottage  seemed 
to  grow  solitary  and  gloomy.  True,  the  old  friends 
hunted  him  up  and  new  friends  sought  him.  Dr.  Carey, 
librarian  of  the  British  Museum,  a  most  genial  man,  as 
well  as  finished  writer,  became  one  of  Lamb's  most  in 
timate  friends  at  this  epoch  of  his  life.  The  two  were 
of  congenial  tastes,  and  liked  nothing  better  than  the 
oft-repeated  sparring  over  the  old  dramatists  or  some 


358       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

new  writers  who  were  claiming  attention.  Thomas 
Wainwright,  who  was  the  brilliant  "Janns  Weather 
cock  "  of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  was  another  crony, 
until  he  turned  villain  and  was  disgraced. 

Lamb's  essays  in  the  "London  Magazine"  had  won 
for  him  a  permanent  place  in  the  literary  world.  Invi 
tations  to  dinners  and  gatherings  of  the  London  literati 
poured  in  upon  him. 

"  If  I  had  as  many  st-st-stomachs  as  a  c-c-camel,  I 
could  fill  them  all  in  these  days,"  he  said  to  Dr.  Carey. 
"I  could  s-s-sample  the /#/£$•  and  p-peacock's  tongues 
of  the  very  aristocracy,  as  often  as  Tom  Moore,  from 
the  numbers  of  billets  doux  that  p-p-pour  into  Colebrook 
Cottage ;  but  my  nerves  won't  stand  that  sort  of 
thing,"  he  said,  rather  regretfully.  "  I  have  to  confine 
my  d-d-diet  to  newspapers  and  m-m-magazines,"  he 
laughed,  as  he  promised  to  attend  the  annual  dinner 
of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  at  which  he  had  become 
high-priest.  These  Fleet  Street  dinners  were  a  great 
function.  Here  were  gathered  John  Scott,  the  editor 
of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  the  publishers,  the  direc 
tors,  and  many  of  the  most  important  contributors. 

De  Quincey,  brilliant  and  satirical,  yearly  growing 
more  shriveled  and  weird,  "  Barry  Cornwall,"  Leigh 
Hunt,  the  fanciful  John  Reynolds,  Dr.  Carey,  dignified 
and  solid,  and  many  other  well-known  knights  of  the 
quill,  were  regular  guests.  How  they  did  fling  satire 
and  criticism  over  the  efforts  of  those  "  young  goslings," 
who  were  just  struggling  to  the  front ! — the  young 
Tennysons  who  had  presumed  to  publish  a  sleek  little 
volume  of  poems — "poems,  forsooth  !  those  pretty  little 
cacklings  and  quackings  of  the  young  pullets  who 
thought  to  hatch  a  brood."  "  New  Byronics  !  "  said 


BLIND  MAN'S  HOLTDA  Y.  359 

Lamb,  somewhat  contemptuously,  as  a  few  of  the  verses 
from  "  Poems  by  Two  Brothers  "  were  read  or  quoted 
over  the  punch-bowl. 

Thus  coolly  and  indifferently  was  the  future  author 
of  "  In  Memoriam  "  and  "  Idyls  of  the  King  "  passed 
on  to  oblivion  by  those  who  had  been  so  dealt  with  by 
the  critics  at  their  own  start.  The  young  dandies, 
Bulwer  andD'Israeli,  who  had  just  published  their  first 
novels,  were  handled  unmercifully. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  such  froth  as  '  Pelham  '  and 
'The  Disowned  '  are  not  worth  notices  in  a  respectable 
magazine,"  said  Dr.  Carey.  "  The  very  condemnation 
of  such  falsities  and  perverted  views  of  life  calls  atten 
tion  to  them.  I  think  we  should  give  no  place  or  notice 
in  the  literary  world  to  such  books." 

"  How  could  two  such  f-f-fops  as  Bulwer  and  that 
1-1-little  curled  Jew  D-D-D'Israeli  write  anything  b-b- 
better  ? "  asked  Lamb.  "  I  s-s-saw  Bulwer  strutting 
be-curled  and  be-jeweled  along  Piccadilly  the  other 
day,  and  I  c-c-could  only  recall  poor  B-B-Beau  Brum- 
mel ;  the  mincing  g-g-gait  and  b-b-bored  stare  were 
identical.  And  Rogers  tells  me  the  author  of  '  Vivian 
Grey  '  is  w-w-worse  yet." 

"  You  ask,  how  could  such  young  puppies  write  better  ? 
Why  need  they  write  at  all  ?  "  asked  Leigh  Hunt. 

"  Your  friend  Coleridge  says  it  is  only  such  light 
stuffing  that  the  reading  world  cares  for  in  these  days." 

"  Dear  old  Coleridge  has  f-f-found  too  little  favor  for 
his  own  g-g-gold  to  endure  having  b-b-brass  take  the 
place  of  true  c-c-coin,"  said  Lamb. 

"  Ah,  well,  you  are  all  too  hard  on  those  boys.  Give 
the  lads  a  chance  ;  show  'em  their  faults  ;  they're  young 
and  will  improve,"  said  Procter.  "  I  remember  how 


360      THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

awfully  I  felt  when  the  *  London '  chopped  up  my 
maiden  efforts  ;  but  it  did  me  good." 

''You  did  not  start  in  as  a  coxcomb,"  said  Dr. 
Carey. 

"  Even  a  coxcomb  may  have  something  to  say  ;  you 
cannot  always  judge  the  kernel  by  the  husk,"  said 
"  Barry  Cornwall." 

"  Snuff  them  out !  snuff  them  out !  "  piped  in  De 
Quincey.  "  Lamb  and  Coleridge  and  Carey  are  right  : 
unless  men  have  something  to  say,  and  know  how  to 
say  it,  they'd  better  keep  quiet.  Perfume,  pomatum, 
and  powder  are  not  good  brain  fertilizers." 

In  the  general  laugh  that  followed  this  sally  of  the 
confirmed  opium-eater,  Lamb  whispered  to  his  neigh 
bor  :  "  Ask  him  what  g-g-guano  he  uses." 

These  dinners  and  an  occasional  poets'  breakfast  at 
Rogers',  where  the  old  friends  were  invited  to  meet 
"the  young  pretenders,"  as  Rogers  called  them,  with 
visits  to  Coleridge  and  occasional  evenings  at  home 
with  the  old  whist-club  set,  were  the  only  dissipations 
Lamb's  failing  health  would  allow.  His  nerves  and 
digestion  were  thoroughly  impaired,  and  he  and  Mary 
tried  another  change.  They  went  to  Enfield  to  visit 
some  old  friends,  and  finally  decided  to  take  rooms 
in  a  pleasant  little  house  there,  where  Mary  could  be 
nursed  during  her  spells  of  insanity. 

Of  the  new  house,  he  wrote  to  Thomas  Hood : 
"  We  have  got  our  books  into  our  new  house.  I  am 
a  dray-horse,  if  I  was  not  ashamed  of  the  undigested 
lumber,  as  I  toppled  'em  out  of  the  cart,  and  blest 
Becky  that  came  with  them  for  having  an  unstuffed 
brain  with  such  rubbish.  We  shall  get  in  by  Michael 
mas.  'Twas  with  some  pain  we  were  evulsed  from 


BLIND  MAN'S  HOLIDAY.  361 

Colebrook.  You  may  find  some  of  our  flesh  sticking 
to  the  door-posts.  To  change  habitations  is  to  die  to 
them  ;  and  in  my  time  I  have  died  seven  deaths.  .  .  . 
My  house  deaths  have  generally  been  periodical,  re 
curring  after  seven  years  ;  but  this  last  is  premature 
by  half  that  time .  Cut  off  in  the  flower  of  Colebrook  ! >?* 

The  cottage  at  Enfield  was  a  pretty,  low  cottage  with 
ivy  growing  over  the  front,  and  in  the  back  garden 
were  yew  trees  and  old  apple  trees  and  pretty  garden 
flowers — the  pinks  and  larkspurs  and  sweet-williams 
that  Mary  loved.  Of  course  the  packing  and  moving 
excited  poor  Mary,  and  brought  on  another  spell,  but 
after  she  recovered  and  they  got  their  old  books  and 
furniture  into  place,  it  was  very  homelike. 

"  I  think,  Polly,  we  must  just  spend  the  rest  of  our 
d-d-days  here.  This  m-m-moving  around  is  such  a 
t-t-tearing  up  of  roots.  Mine  are  b-b-bleeding  yet  from 
the  wrench.  If  our  dear  old  New  River  had  not  f-f- 
followed  us  down,  I  f-f-fear  I  could  not  strike  root 
again." 

"  Yes,  brother,  God  willing,  we  will  stay  here  until 
He  calls  us  away,"  she  answered,  laying  her  hand  lov 
ingly  upon  his  shoulder. 

"You  must  go  first,  you  know,  Mary,"  he  said,  smil 
ing  up  into  her  face  with  that  exquisite,  tender  smile, 
that  so  bound  his  friends  to  him. 

"  Yes  !  I  must  go  first,  Charles.  What  should  I  do 
in  this  world  without  the  kind  care  that  has  watched 
me  these  thirty  years  ?  " 

And  Dash,  the  great  rollicking  dog  of  Hood's,  that 
summered  with  the  Lambs,  looked  beseechingly  into 
their  faces,  as  they  talked  thus  earnestly. 

*"  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb." — AINGER. 


362     THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

He  thumped  his  fringed  tail  on  the  floor,  and 
sighed  so  heavily,  that  Charles  and  Mary  laughed. 
"  What,  Dash,  are  you  afraid  you'll  have  to  st-st-stay  in 
London  when  we're  g-g-gone  ? "  And  Dash's  howl  of 
delight  and  slobbering  caresses  led  to  a  change  of 
topic. 

At  pretty  Enfield,  with  its  shady  trees  and  fine  mead 
ows.  Charles  Lamb  and  Mary  and  the  frisking  Dash 
became  well-known  features,  during  their  long  daily 
walks. 

Often  Emma  Isola  was  with  them,  at  the  holiday 
seasons,  and  during  vacation.  She  had  grown  very 
handsome,  this  brown-eyed  lassie,  and  some  of  the 
Lambs'  visitors  and  friends  became  much  attached  to 
her. 

Among  them  was  the  young  publisher,  Edward 
Moxon,  who  had  published  Lamb's  Essays,  in  the 
collection  called  "  Essays  of  Elia." 

He  came  very  often  on  business,  especially  when 
Emma  was  at  home.  And  after  a  long  spell  of  brain 
fever,  from  which  she  was  slow  in  recovering,  he  asked 
Charles  and  Mary  to  give  him  their  child. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  w-w-want  to  keep  your  p-p-pro- 
mise.  miss  ?  "  asked  Charles,  pinching  the  hot  cheeks. 
"  Is  this  the  way  you  are  g-g-going  to  cheer  an  old  age, 
flying  off  with  the  f-f-first  young  r-rooster  that  c-crows  ? " 

"  Humph  !  that's  all  you  know  about  it,  if  you  sup 
pose  this  is  my  first  offer,"  said  Emma,  saucily. 

"  Shade  of  my  g-g-grandmother  !  Who  else  could 
there  be  ?  Why  you  were  only  hatched  the  other  day  !  " 

"  My  children  down  at  Farnham  thought  me  quite 
an  old  person,"  said  Emma,  laughing,  "  and  if  you  can 
not  guess  who  was  the  disappointed  swain,  I'm  sure 


BLIND  MAN'S  HOLIDAY.  363 

I'll  not  tell  you,"  she  added,  tossing  her  pretty  brown 
curls.  So  Emma  Isola  became  engaged  to  Edward 
Moxon,  and  again  Mary  had  the  pleasure  of  aiding  and 
abetting  a  happy  pair  of  lovers,  and  brooding,  like  a 
motherly  hen,  over  the  courtship. 

The  other  wedding  over  which  the  Lambs  had  pre 
sided  had  not  turned  out  as  happily  as  they  had  hoped. 
Sarah  Stoddart  was  too  high-spirited  a  woman  to  tamely 
submit  to  Hazlitt's  many  whims  and  eccentricities. 
She  had  come  to  Mary,  and  even  to  Charles  Lamb  with 
complaints  and  tales  of  unhappiness,  as  the  years  went 
by.  The  keen  sarcasm  that  Hazlitt  used  so  unsparingly 
upon  the  writers  and  artists  of  his  day  was  too  often 
turned  upon  his  wife.  That  dangerous  weapon  is  certain 
death  to  peace  and  happiness,  if  used  too  freely  at 
home. 

The  Lambs  urged  forbearance,  and  patched  up  many 
a  quarrel  between  these  two ;  but  lately  they  had  not 
even  lived  together. 

The  Lambs,  pitying  and  condemning  both,  stood 
between  the  parted  husband  and  wife  as  the  friend  of 
both,  hoping  that  time  would  soften  the  asperities  that 
held  them  apart,  and  would  draw  them  together  again. 

"  We  old  maid  and  old  bachelor  pair  s-s-seem  better 
m-m-mated  than  our  m-m-married  friends,"  said  Lamb. 
"  Look  at  Coleridge  and  Hazlitt,  at  Godwin  and  D-D- 
Dyer,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  married  c-c-couples." 

"  Perhaps  our  tie  is  the  closer  for  being  less  binding. 
But  I  cannot  imagine  your  being  disagreeable  enough 
to  lose  the  love  of  a  wife,  in  spite  of  sundry  little  fail 
ings,"  said  Mary,  smiling. 

"  Eh,  Polly,  you  have  had  to  b-b-bear  many  a  year 
with  my  old  m-m-mistresses,  Tobacco  and  Punch,  and 


364     THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

you  think  even  a  w-w-wife  could  learn  to  st-st-stand 
them?" 

"  Maybe  she  could  have  supplanted  them,  brother," 
said  Mary,  with  her  usual  gentle  caress. 

"  Aye,  there's  the  rub  ;  w-w-wives  try  to  f-f-force  their 
lords  to  leave  old  h-h  habits,  instead  of  t-t-trying  to  win 
them  and  w-w-wean  them.  I  do  hope  for  great  happi 
ness  in  this  union ;  Emma  and  M-M-Moxon  are  better 
suiied  to  each  other  than  m-m-most  people  who  marry." 

As  the  months  passed,  Mary's  illnesses  became  so 
frequent  that  both  she  and  Charles  found  home  cares 
weighed  too  heavily  upon  them.  After  many  discus 
sions  they  decided  to  sell  off  all  their  household  goods 
but  the  beloved  book-case  and  books,  and  their  bed 
room  furniture,  and  board  with  their  neighbors,  the 
Westwoods. 

Charles  sighed  for  London,  and  wearied  of  the  dread 
ful  monotony  of  the  little  village  of  Enfield.  "  I  know 
every  bit  of  old  g-g-gingerbread  in  these  accursed  little 
shops,"  he  said. 

And  after  settling  Mary  comfortably  at  the  West- 
woods,  he  took  a  room  in  London,  and  comforted  his 
soul  with  long  walks  around  his  beloved  streets,  and 
prowls  around  the  well-known  book-stalls  and  haunts. 

But  much  of  the  old  charm  was  lost.  He  had  no 
home  now  to  hold  the  treasures  he  coveted. 

So  many  of  the  old  friends  were  gone.  Godwin  was 
dead,  and  Hazlitt  had  died  lately,  and  many  were  scat 
tered  in  different  directions,  and  much  of  the  old 
relish  for  the  bustle  and  hurry  of  London  streets  was 
gone,  for  Charles  Lamb  was  growing  old  and  feeble. 
His  overtaxed  nerves  had  reacted,  leaving  him  full  of 
pains  and  aches,  with  a  restlessness  and  feebleness  far 


BLTND  MAN^S  HOLIDA  Y.  365 

greater  than  should  naturally  belong  to  a  man  of  fifty- 
six  years  of  age.  Many  men,  most  men  of  fifty  to 
sixty,  are  still  in  their  prime,  with  scarcely  a  foreshad 
owing  of  the  end.  But  Coleridge  and  Lamb  were 
prematurely  old.  Life  had  gone  hard  with  both. 
Anxieties  and  endless  strain  had  worn  out  Charles 
Lamb's  vitality,  and  disappointment  and  opium  had 
sapped  Coleridge's  strength. 

Within  a  few  miles  of  each  other  the  two  friends 
were  rapidly  drifting  down  life's  stream,  farther  apart, 
in  their  ill-health  and  weakness,  than  in  the  wider  sep 
arations  of  early  life. 

Coleridge  seldom  came  to  London,  and  very  rarely 
did  he  visit  the  Lambs,  although  the  tie  of  love  and 
friendship  was  as  close  as  ever.  Sometimes  Charles 
and  Mary  Lamb  visited  Coleridge  at  Highgate,  stop 
ping  over  night  at  the  Inn  near  by,  and  spending  a 
happy  day  and  evening  together.  But  often  long  in 
tervals  elapsed  without  a  meeting  or  a  letter. 

This  same  year  that  gave  Charles  and  Mary  a  happy 
wedding,  also  brought  new  life  and  love  to  Coleridge. 
His  daughter  Sara  was  married  to  the  Cousin  Henry 
who  had  been  as  a  son  to  Coleridge  during  his  resi 
dence  at  Highgate.  The  young  couple  settled  at  High- 
gate,  near  their  beloved  and  revered  father,  and  were 
often  with  him. 

Emma  and  Mr.  Moxon  were  married  at  St.  George's 
Church,  in  July,  1830,  having  quite  a  fashionable  wed 
ding,  with  many  distinguished  writers  among  the 
guests.  Holcroftand  Talfourd,  Procter,  Martin  Burney, 
Tom  Hood,  the  CowdenClarkes,  Rickman,  and  Rogers 
who  was  a  sincere  friend  of  Moxon,  with  many  others, 
attended  the  wedding.  A  trip  to  Paris  and  Northern 


366       THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

France  followed,  and  the  happy  couple  sent  to  the 
Lambs  a  number  of  pretty  sonnets  extolling  their  hap 
piness  amid  the  new  scenes.  The  wedding  prepara 
tions,  in  which  Mary  had  so  keen  an  interest,  were  too 
much  for  her  nerves,  and  at  the  very  time  she  was 
struggling  with  a  violent  spell  of  insanity,  from  which 
she  recovered  suddenly  when  the  attendant  spoke  to 
her  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon.  The  horrid  blank  of 
wandering  wits  was  broken  suddenly,  as  when  the  sun 
bursts  through  a  heavy  cloud,  and  she  returned  to  full 
interest  and  comprehension  of  all  the  details,  and  ten 
der  sympathy  with  the  happiness  of  her  friends. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

DEATH    OF    COLERIDGE. 

'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

CAMPBELL. 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 
Death  and  his  brother  Sleep. 
One  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 
With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ; 
The  other  rosy  as  the  morn, 
When  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 
It  blushes  o'er  the  world. 

Unfathomable  Sea,  whose  waves  are  years  ! 

Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears ! 

Thou  slioreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality ! 

SHELLEY. 

AT  Dr.  Gillman's,  on  the  hillside  at  Highgate,  the 
white-haired  poet  was  daily  growing  more  feeble.  As 
his  bodily  strength  wasted,  his  noble  soul  expanded, 
until  he  seemed  to  his  many  devoted  friends  more 
angel  than  man.  He  suffered  terribly  from  intense 
restlessness,  and  spent  many  hours  of  the  day  and  night 
in  pacing  slowly  back  and  forth  along  the  sunny  garret- 
room,  which  had  been  raised  and  enlarged  for  him. 
He  was  happy  with  the  Gillmans,  and  they  warmly 


368       THE  DA  VS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

welcomed  the  many  friends  who  still  flocked  around 
him  to  enjoy  the  beautiful  eloquence  that  never  deserted 
him.  He  rambled  on,  pouring  the  same  musical  flow 
of  talk  into  the  ears  of  all  who  listened.  A  gentle  peace 
soothed  these  last  years.  He  had  fought  a  terrible 
battle  against  the  most  insidious  foe  that  can  attack 
man.  He  had  suffered  many  a  defeat,  and  had  gained 
many  a  victory,  but  at  last  the  soul  rose  triumphant 
over  the  weakened  body.  In  the  days  of  his  humili 
ation  he  had  written  books  that  are  sought  and  studied 
by  scholars,  for  their  clear  philosophy  and  their  Chris 
tian  teaching.  The  mists  of  doubt  and  questioning 
had  long  since  cleared  away,  and  his  faith  grasped  the 
Bible  and  all  its  teachings  as  the  only  sure  guide.  He 
had  wandered  in  darkness  whilst  seeking  the  Truth  ; 
but  had  found  the  rottenness  of  mere  human  reason 
ing,  and  was  glad  to  accept  the  Church  of  England's 
teachings,  as  a  tired  child  clings  to  its  mother,  penitent 
for  its  wanderings,  and  safe  in  the  happy  shelter  of  her 
love.  He  had  written  the  confession  of  his  wanderings 
in  the  "Biographia  Literaria,"  and  was  now  patiently 
waiting  delivery  from  his  pains  and  weakness,  con 
fident  in  God's  mercy,  through  Jesus  Christ. 

At  this  time,  during  the  long  days  and  nights,  when 
the  Past  with  all  its  phases  and  mistakes  rose  before 
him,  he  could  feel  that  at  least  he  had  always  believed 
and  written  honestly,  and  that  the  principles  of  his 
youth  were  the  principles  of  his  age,  only  modified  by 
the  clearer  vision  gained  by  life's  varied  experiences. 
His  early  friends  were  still  the  friends  of  his  last  years, 
and  he  had  never  stooped  to  truckle  for  favor  or 
influence. 

The  world's  history  had  shattered  many  of  his  ideals, 


DEA  TH  OF  COLERIDGE.  369 

and  forced  him  to  change  his  political  party  to  accord 
with  his  principles,  which  were  modified,  though  not 
changed.  Liberty,  human  rights,  individual  freedom, 
were  still  his  ideals,  and,  over  all,  a  faith  in  His  loving 
care.  Charles  Lamb,  his  boyhood's  friend,  and  man 
hood's  companion,  was  still  the  dearest  friend  of  his 
age,  although  the  growing  infirmities  of  both  had  kept 
them  so  much  apart  of  late. 

Charles  and  Mary  had  made  one  more  change  of 
residence  during  these  years.  They  had  removed  to  a 
pleasant  cottage  at  Edmonton,  near  the  pretty  church 
with  the  square  tower  with  battlementedtop.  Here,  in 
the  low,  cosy  cottage  of  Mr.  Walden,  where  they  had 
choice  rooms,  the  sister  and  brother  played  piquet, 
read,  and  even  studied  together,  during  the  inter 
vals  between  Mary's  spells  of  insanity.  Charles  wrote 
to  Wordsworth  :*  "  Her  illnesses  encroach  yearly.  The 
last  was  three  months,  followed  by  two  of  depression 
most  dreadful.  I  look  back  upon  her  earlier  attacks 
with  longing — nice  little  durations  of  six  weeks  or  so, 
followed  by  complete  restoration — shocking  as  they 
were  to  me  then.  In  short,  half  her  life  she  is  dead  to 
me,  and  the  other  half  is  made  anxious  with  fears  and 
lockings  forward  to  the  next  shock.  With  such  pros 
pects,  it  seemed  to  me  necessary  that  she  should  no 
longer  live  with  me,  and  be  fluttered  by  continual  re 
movals  ;  so  I  am  come  to  live  with  her  at  a  Mr.  Wai- 
den's  and  his  wife,  who  take  in  patients,  and  have  ar 
ranged  to  lodge  and  board  us  only.  They  have  had 
the  care  of  her  before.  I  see  little  of  her.  Alas  !  I  too 
often  hear  her.  Sunt  lachrymce  rerum  /  and  you  and  I 
must  bear  it I  am  three  or  four  miles  nearer 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb."— AINGER. 
24 


370      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

the  great  city.  Coaches,  half-price  less,  and  going 
always,  of  which  I  will  avail  myself.  I  have  few 
friends  left  there — one  or  two,  though,  most  beloved. 
But  London  streets  and  faces  cheer  me  inexpres 
sibly." 

So  he  still  loves  and  longs  for  London.  To  Ber 
nard  Barton  he  writes  :  "  I  dread  the  prospect  of  Sum 
mer  with  his  all-day-long  days.  No  need  of  his  as 
sistance  to  make  country  places  dull.  With  fire  and 
candle-light  I  can  drown  myself  in  Holborn.  With 
lightsome  skies  shining  in  to  bed-time  I  cannot.  .  .  . 
Give  me  old  London  at  fire  and  plague  times,  rather 
than  these  tepid  gales,  healthy  country  airs,  and  pur 
poseless  exercises."* 

Thus,  through  all  the  long  weary  years  of  his  anxious 
life,  he  remained  the  same  London-loving,  gentle- 
hearted  cockney.  Starting  a  true,  though  unortho 
dox,  Christian,  Charles  Lamb  never  wavered,  never 
wandered  into  mazes  of  unbelief,  but  held  steadily  to 
his  God  and  his  Bible,  seeing  with  his  wise  philoso 
pher's  eyes  through  all  the  petty  shams,  right  into  the 
heart  of  men  and  life.  And  seeing  the  shams  and 
masks,  he  never  grew  bitter,  but  humored  the  delu 
sions,  and  found  the  disguised  princes  beneath  their 
masquerades,  smiling  always  at  the  paint  and  powder 
and  the  make-believes,  honoring  them,  sometimes,  as 
the  mere  cloak  of  self-respect,  worn  to  hide  the  tatters 
of  poverty.  Such  is  his  picture  of  Captain  Jackson, 
who  represents  a  whole  class  of  men  and  women  that 
make  the  world  better  for  their  cheerful,  uncomplaining 
gayety. 

He  unconsciously  painted  himself  in  this  sketch  ;  for 

*  "  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb," — AINGER. 


DEA  TH  OF  COLE  RID  GE.  3  7 1 

was  not  Charles  Lamb's  whole  life  one  endless  struggle 
concealed  by  the  pleasant  jests  and  wit  that  endeared 
him  so  to  all  ? 

Because  of  their  frequent  illnesses,  Charles  and 
Mary  had  not  seen  much  of  Coleridge  during  the  past 
year.  They  had  corresponded  and  sent  books  to  one 
another,  but  had  seldom  met.  Lamb,  suffering  with 
colds,  rheumatism,  dyspepsia,  and  the  many  ills  of  in 
creasing  age,  did  not  know  how  rapidly  Coleridge  was 
failing.  And  Coleridge,  during  the  restless  days  and 
wakeful  nights,  longed  for  those  dear  friends  of  his 
heart.  Hunting  among  his  books  for  a  rare  old  copy 
of  "  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,"  with  his  marginal  notes 
like  his  own  personal  chats  all  through,  he  wrote  on 
the  fly-leaf  : 

"  Midnight.  God  bless  you,  dear  Charles  Lamb.  I 
am  dying.  I  feel  I  have  not  many  weeks  left,  in  Gill- 
man's,  Highgate.— Yours,  S.'T.  C." 

Another  hand  had  added  :  "  Died  July  25,  1834." 

Coleridge  hoped  to  see  his  friend  once  more,  but 
knowing  he  had  been  ill  with  nervous  and  rheumatic 
disorders,  feared  this  would  be  his  last  farewell. 

And  it  was. 

The  wonderful  hazel  eyes,  that  Carlyle  said  "  were 
full  of  sorrow  as  of  inspiration,"  gazed  out  into  the 
future  and  back  into  the  past,  and  again  he  wrote  : 

"  Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 
When  we  are  old  : 


372       THE  DAYS  OF  LA  Am  A\D  COLERIDGE. 

That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist. 
Yet  hath  out-stay' d  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile." 


He  sighed  at  the  truth  of  these  last  pathetic  words, 
thinking  how  true  they  were  of  his  own  life — a  guest — 
where  wife,  children,  family,  all,  were  gone  from  his 
side. 

His  daughter  and  her  husband  were,  indeed,  often 
with  him,  bringing  their  little  babe  ;  but  Sara's  delicate 
health  and  her  baby  prevented  her  from  remaining 
constantly  at  his  side.  "  Barry  Cornwall  "  and  Leigh 
Hunt  lived  near,  and  frequently  cheered  him  with  loving 
words. 

But  at  the  end  only  Sara  and  Henry  Coleridge  were 
near  to  give  him  earth's  last  farewell,  and  to  close  those 
beautiful  eyes  that  mirrored  his  poet's  soul. 

Under  his  pillow  was  found,  written  with  feeble  hand  : 

"  Stop,  Christian  passer-by — stop,  child  of  God, 
And  read  with  gentle  breast.     Beneath  this  sod 
A  poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he — 
O  lift  one  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C.  ! 
That  he  who  many  a  year  with  toil  of  breath, 
Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death, 
Mercy  for  praise — to  be  forgiven  for  fame, 
He  asked  and  hoped,  through  Christ.     Do  thou  the  same. 

"  S.  T.  C." 

To  one  loving  heart  the  news  of  Coleridge's  death 
came  as  a  knell  that  kept  repeating  its  monotone  in  his 
ears  :  "  Coleridge  is  dead  !  Coleridge  is  dead  !  " 


DEATH  OF  COLERIDGE.  373 

Charles  Lamb  was  shocked,  not  knowing  that  the 
end  was  near,  and  for  weeks  and  months  kept  repeating  : 
"  Coleridge  is  dead  !  Coleridge  is  dead  !  " 

He  had  received  a  message  from  the  Gillmans  about 
Coleridge's  illness,  upon  his  own  recovery  from  a  spell 
of  sickness,  and  took  the  coach  to  London,  and  thence 
to  Highgate,  hoping  for  a  last  farewell,  a  last  look. 
But  he  was  too  late,  his  friend  was  dead,  and  as  he 
hastened  up  the  steps  of  the  closed  house,  dreading, 
fearing  to  see  that  loved  face,  perhaps  in  its  last  agony, 
perhaps  rigid  in  death,  he  found  they  had  that  morning 
laid  his  dear  brother  in  the  churchyard  beneath  the 
cloister. 

"  We  sent  you  word  of  the  death  and  funeral,  which 
you  must  have  missed,  although  we  thought  you  were 
too  ill  to  attend,"  said  Dr.  Gillman.  "  He  died  as 
peacefully  as  a  little  child  falling  asleep  in  its  mother's 
arms." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  my  friend  !  "  was  all  Charles  Lamb 
could  say. 

They  gave  him  the  book  with  Coleridge's  last  mes 
sage  written  for  him,  and  he  spent  the  rest  of  the  day 
pacing  around  the  new-made  grave  of  him  who  for 
more  than  fifty  years  had  been  his  dearest  friend,  his 
more  than  brother.  He  found  the  nurse  who  had 
soothed  his  friend's  last  hours,  and  pouring  the  contents 
of  his  purse  into  her  hand,  he  moaned  :  "  'Tis  all  I  can 
do,  my  friend,  my  friend  !  " 

Like  a  wounded  creature,  he  crept  back  to  Edmonton, 
where  Mary  was  singing  and  raving  and  rambling  on, 
in  ceaseless  flow  of  disjointed  eloquence  and  frag 
mentary  memories.  Her  ravings  reached  him  through 
the  closed  doors,  reminding  him  that,  with  Hazlitt  and 


374      THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Godwin  gone,  and  now  with  Coleridge — his  Coleridge- 
dead,  there  were  still  duties  left  for  him. 

She  would  become  herself  again  and  need  him.  So, 
taking  his  pipe  and  book,  he  schooled  himself  into  a 
calm  ;  but  ever  through  heart  and  brain  were  surging 
the  words  :  "  Coleridge  is  dead  !  Coleridge  is  dead  !  " 
The  mourning  ring  which  Coleridge  had  ordered  for 
him  was  also  a  ceaseless  reminder. 

The  papers  and  magazines  began  also  to  take  up 
the  theme  that  was  haunting  him.  They  seemed  sud 
denly  to  awake  to  the  fact  that  the  poet  whom  they 
had  slighted  and  scorned  for  so  many  years  was  a  man 
upon  a  higher  plane  than  one  meets  every  day.  They 
eulogized  his  poems  ;  they  praised  his  prose  ;  they  re 
membered  his  "  fine  lectures  and  wonderful  eloquence." 
He  was  dead,  so  they  lavished  the  applause  upon  his 
memory  that  would  have  saved  his  living  heart  many  a 
bitter  pang.  He  was  deaf  to  all  praise  now  that  they 
remembered  the  rare  beauty  of  his  verse  and  song.  As 
so  often  happens  in  this  contrary  world,  they  now 
began  to  build  a  pedestal  for  him.  "  He  was  one  of 
England's  Bards  " — he  whom  they  had  scorned  and 
discouraged,  without  stint  and  measure.  *  "  Black- 
wood's  Magazine,"  that  had  sneered  at  his  "  Chris- 
tabel  "  as  "  impudent  lunacy,"  now  remembered  that 
"  Coleridge,  alone,  of  all  men  that  ever  lived,  was 
always  a  poet,  in  all  moods."  And  the  "  Edinburgh 
Review "  and  the  "  Quarterly,"  that  had  given  him 
naught  but  criticism,  and  refused  him  a  place  in  litera 
ture  where  he  might  earn  his  bread,  now  became  gen 
erous — nay,  even  fulsome — in  their  praises  of  the  dead 
poet.  Too  late,  too  late,  to  help  him  in  the  weary 
*  "  Life  of  Coleridge."— HALL  C AINE. 


DEATH  OF  COLERIDGE.  375 

struggle,  or  to  encourage  the  genius  they  had  succeeded 
in  stamping  out,  they  gave  him  his  deserts.  Ah,  the 
pity  of  it  all  !  The  pity  !  the  shame  !  that  men  who 
might  build  up  and  help  should  spend  their  energies 
and  powers  in  stinging  a  poet's  genius  to  death,  and 
then  atone  by  praising  him — too  late  ! 

Lamb  wept  bitter  tears  over  these  late  tributes  to  his 
dead  friend,  that  kept  appearing  in  the  magazines  and 
papers. 

"  Too  late  to  comfort  or  encourage  his  t-t-tired 
heart !  "  cried  Lamb  over  the  "  Edinburgh  Review." 
"Oh,  why  did  they  not  s-s-say  all  this  before?  He 
1-1-longed  for  it,  he  waited  for  it,  until  he  was  w-w-worn 
out,  and  n-n-now  his  ears  are  d-d-deaf  to  it.  He  c-c-can- 
not  know  that  justice  has  c-c-come  at  last." 

"  He  was  a  crushed  and  broken  man,"  said  Talfourd. 
"  The  failure  of  every  effort  cut  him  to  the  very  soul. 
He  knew  his  weakness,  but  he  felt  his  poet's  powers, 
and  the  cruel  attacks  upon  each  book  he  offered  were 
stabs  he  could  not  bear." 

"  Yes  ;  they  killed  the  poet  in  him,"  said  Leigh  Hunt ; 
"  his  beautiful  peace  and  sweetness  in  those  last  years 
was  the  absolute  yielding  to  resignation  ;  he  had  ceased 
to  struggle  for  his  place  in  the  world." 

"  And  yet  such  yielding  is  not  mere  c-c-cowardice ; 
it  is  but  accepting  one's  f-f-fate,"  said  Charles  Lamb. 
"  There  always  c-c-comes  a  time  when  effort  must  suc 
cumb,  and  one  must  ac-ac-acquiesce  in  one's  1-1-lot." 


CHAPTER   XLVT. 

BREAKING      THE      KNOT. 

Mr.  Lamb  has  the  very  soul  of  an  antiquarian.  The  film  of 
the  Past  hovers  forever  before  him.  He  is  shy,  sensitive,  the  re 
verse  of  everything  coarse,  vulgar,  obtrusive,  and  commonplace. 

There  is  a  fine  tone  of  chiciro  oscuro — a  moral  perspective  in  his 
writings.  He  delights  to  dwell  on  that  which  is  fresh  to  the  eye 
of  memory.  He  blurts  out  the  finest  wit  and  sense  in  the  world. 
WM.  HAZLITT. — Spirit  of  the  Age. 

THE  summer  faded  into  autumn,  bringing  the  cold 
November  rains,  and  fresh  pains  and  weakness  to 
Charles  Lamb.  Mary  was  well  again,  and  was  once 
more  the  watchful  care-taker,  tenderly  guarding  and 
comforting  her  invalid.  He  could  no  longer  bear  the 
noise  and  jolting  of  the  rumbling  coach,  so  his  only  ex 
ercise  and  change  were  his  short  walks  to  the  "  Bell  " 
at  Edmonton  for  his  glass  of  ale  or  whisky.  In  return 
ing,  one  sleety  day,  he  slipped  upon  the  icy  stones  and 
fell,  bruising  his  face.  Erysipelas  set  in,  and  after  a 
few  days  of  fever  and  suffering,  softened  by  the  merci 
ful  unconsciousness  that  dulls  the  pangs  of  death  and 
partings,  it  was  all  over.  The  gentle  "  Elia  "  passed 
away,  leaving  Mary  alone  in  her  helpless  affliction. 

The  Blue-coat  boy  had  already  become  known  and 
famous  far  beyond  his  modest  ambition.  Little  by  little 
his  quaint  fancies  had  taken  hold  of  the  popular  heart 


BREAKING  TPIE  KNOT.  377 

and  being  so  unpretending,  the  critics  gave  him  help 
rather  than  hindrance.  When  he  died,  his  heroic  life 
of  self-sacrifice  and  self-surrender  was  known  to  few 
besides  his  intimate  friends.  He  never  claimed  the 
least  merit  for  surrendering  life's  ambitions  at  the  very 
start,  and  taking  up  its  burdens  in  the  path  of  duty. 
His  quiet  generosity  to  friends  in  need  was  known  only 
to  himself  and  the  recipients  of  his  charities ;  but  the 
fragrance  of  his  sweet,  blameless  life  clung  around  his 
memory,  and  expanded  as  the  years  passed,  until  his 
life,  as  well  as  his  works,  gave  him  his  place  among  the 
best  beloved  of  the  English  essayists. 

Dear,  quaint  Charles  Lamb  !  who  does  not  know  and 
love  his  pictures  of  English  life,  and  London  scenes  and 
characters — his  gathered  and  crystallized  memories, 
given  in  his  matchless  style  ! 

They  buried  him  quietly,  in  the  little  churchyard  at 
Edmonton,  and  placed  a  plain  stone  over  him,  and  a 
tablet  to  his  memory  in  the  church. 

For  thirteen  years  after  his  death  did  Mary  survive 
him.  She,  the  helpless  invalid,  who  for  nearly  forty 
years  had  been  his  first  care,  was  left  alone  and  unpro 
tected  to  bear  her  burden  of  illness  and  helplessness. 

True,  the  Moxons  were  left  to  see  that  she  was  com 
fortably  cared  for,  and  their  many  friends  never  forgot 
the  gentle  woman  who  had  always  so  warmly  welcomed 
them  to  the  cosy  fireside.  And  the  half  of  the  India 
House  pension  was  continued  to  Mary  during  her  life. 
Besides  this  pension,  Charles  had  saved  nearly  two 
thousand  pounds  of  his  hard-earned  money  from  his 
salary  and  his  writings,  to  keep  the  loved  sister  from 
want  or  anxiety. 

But  what  need  to  picture  the  loneliness  of  these  years 


378     THE  DA  YS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

of  alternating  illness  and  recovery.  She  was  too  brave 
and  sweet  a  woman  to  spend  them  in  hopeless  repining. 
The  calm  strength  that  had  sustained  her  through  all 
those  years  of  trial  was  hers  still.  The  faith  that  was 
able  to  reconcile  her  to  life,  after  the  horrible  deed  com 
mitted  during  her  insanity,  sustained  her  through  this 
loss  and  the  lifelong  loneliness  that  followed.  Her 
bodily  health  even  improved  as  years  went  by,  and  the 
spells  of  insanity  were  less  frequent.  She  grieved  over 
the  long  illness  and  the  shattered  faculties  of  her  friend 
Dorothy  Wordsworth.  And  when  the  poet's  loved 
daughter  married  and  died  so  soon  afterwards,  Mary 
Lamb  sent  tenderest  messages  to  the  Wordsworths. 

It  is  strange  how  many  of  this  once  closely  allied 
circle  were  doomed  to  suffer  the  same  misery  that  had 
pursued  Mary  Lamb  throughout  her  life. 

For  several  years  Edith  Southey,  the  poet's  wife,  had 
shown  signs  of  mental  trouble.  She  was  extremely 
variable,  at  times  wildly  excited  over  mere  trifles,  and 
suddenly  depressed  and  melancholy.  Southey  had 
watched  her,  silently  and  anxiously,  for  a  long  time 
before  her  state  became  noticeable  to  others.  But  the 
latent  insanity  was  unmistakable  before  the  time  of 
Coleridge's  and  Charles  Lamb's  deaths ;  and  now 
Southey's  own  health  suffered  severely  from  the  con 
stant  tax  upon  his  nerves. 

The  life-long  strain  upon  her,  of  family  cares  and 
the  constant  effort  to  keep  increasing  expenses  within 
the  limited  income,  had  worn  out  the  mind  and  body  of 
Edith  Southey.  She  was  a  brave  woman,  who  ever 
had  the  tenderest  co-operation  and  sympathy  from  her 
husband ;  but  his  increasing  prosperity  came  too  late 
to  mend  the  overtaxed  nerves.  They  yielded  to  the 


BREAKING  THE  KNOT.  379 

pressure,  and  she  became  entirely  insane,  and  finally 
Southey  was  forced  to  place  her  under  medical  care 
and  restraint.  Fortunately,  the  poor  woman  did  not 
live  long  in  her.  pitiable  condition.  But  when  Southey 
himself,  a  few  years  later,  just  after  his  marriage  with 
Caroline  Bowles,  sank  into  the  strange  confusion  and 
the  settled  torpor  of  softening  of  the  brain,  it  did  seem 
as  if  some  cruel  Nemesis  were  pursuing  the  different 
branches  of  our  party  of  poet-friends. 

For  a  fine,  well-balanced  mind  like  Southey's  to  sink 
into  ruin  seems  most  strange  and  terrible.  Perhaps 
the  constant,  unremitting  labor  of  fifty  years  was  a 
heavier  drain  than  human  nature  could  endure.  But 
the  great  number  of  his  books  and  writings  are  evidence 
of  his  ceaseless  mental  activity,  and  the  fiat,  "  Well 
done,  good  and  faithful  servant,"  is  the  reward  for  such 
lives  as  his  and  the  venerable  Wordsworth's,  who  after 
wards  wore  the  Laureate's  mantle,  fallen  from  the 
shoulders  of  his  departed  friend,  Robert  Southey. 

He,  the  eldest,  the  calmest,  the  greatest,  of  this 
galaxy  of  poets,  was  the  last  to  pass  away. 

They,  whose  lives  met  and  flowed  so  pleasantly  to 
gether,  often  intermingling  on  their  way  to  the  great 
sea  of  eternity,  lie  scattered  in  their  last  earthly  resting- 
places.  Coleridge  lies  beneath  the  cloisters  of  the  new 
school  at  Highgate,  which  has  supplanted  the  old 
church.  The  memorial  shaft  is  as  hidden  away  as  was 
his  life,  though  the  site  of  building  and  monument  lies 
upon  the  beautiful  heights  of  Highgate,  which  look  down 
upon  Hampstead  Heath,  and  have  the  distant  towns 
and  spires  of  London  as  a  mirage  upon  the  horizon, 
glistening  in  the  sun,  or  fading  out  in  the  soft  veils  of 
mist  that  often  drown  the  lovely  view. 


380       THE  DAYS  OF  LAMB  AND  COLERIDGE. 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  sleep  well,  "  after  life's 
fitful  fever,"  in  the  quiet  churchyard  at  Edmonton,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  low,  square  tower.  There,  quite  close 
to  the  shady  village  street,  amid  many  plain  old  tombs 
and  slabs,  stands  the  simple  headstone  that  marks  the 
grave  of  the  sister  and  brother  whose  lives  were  as 
simple  and  unpretentious.  Methinks  a  corner  in 
Christ's  Hospital  churchyard,  where  a  few  old  graves  lie 
clustered  in  the  shadow  of  the  Blue-coat  walls,  would 
have  been  a  more  suitable  resting-place  for  him  who 
loved  those  scenes  so  well,  or  a  secluded  corner  in  his 
beloved  Temple  precincts.  But  the  gentle  spirit  is  as 
happy  in  the  reunion  with  his  loved  ones  upon  the 
shores  of  the  great  sea,  as  though  his  cast-off  body  of 
the  flesh  had  received  this  tribute. 

Robert  Southey  sleeps  in  Crossthwaite  churchyard, 
near  Keswick,  with  great  Skiddaw  and  its  "  giant 
brotherhood  "  keeping  watch  above  him,  with  the  Greta 
still  murmuring  the  song  he  knew  and  loved,  near 
enough  to  sing  his  requiem.  His  recumbent  statue,  in 
the  church  close  by,  and  the  medallion  in  the  wall  will 
ever  keep  his  memory  fresh  in  the  spot  he  loved 
and  honored. 

Wordsworth,  too,  lies  amid  the  scenes  he  so  revered 
during  his  long  life.  At  the  foot  of  his  own  yews  in 
Grasmere  churchyard,  where  his  loved  Rothay  ever 
whispers  its  sweet  secrets  close  to  his  last  bed,  he  lies 
surrounded  by  his  loved  ones  :  Mary  (his  wife),  Dora, 
Dorothy,  Hartley  Coleridge,  and  all  his  little  circle. 

Truly  he  is  at  home  here,  at  the  foot  of  Nab  Scar,  in 
the  beautiful  Grasmere  Vale  where  he  spent  so  many 
happy  years  as  Nature's  own  interpreter.  No  need  of 
the  medallion  and  tablet  graven  upon  the  wall  of  yonder 


BREAKING  THE  KNOT.  381 

pretty  stone  church  that  was  his  sanctuary  for  so  many 
years.  The  rocks,  mountains,  and  vales  of  all  that 
beautiful  Lake  Country  are  his  ineffaceable  monuments. 
He  haunts  them  still.  No  crag  or  hidden  corner,  no 
group  of  yews,  or  tender  heather-bed,  or  rippling  water 
fall,  but  belonged  to  him,  and  was  consecrated  by  his 
verse  to  all  humanity.  And  when  we  climb  those 
grassy  slopes,  and  see  those  crowns  and  shoulders  still 
standing  sentinel  over  the  lakes  and  nestling  tarns,  we 
know  the  Lake  Poets  are  not  dead,  but  sleeping,  and 
each  loving  visitor  has  power  to  bid  them  "  Arise  !  " 


THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 


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